THE  BAWLEROUT 


THE    BAWLEROUT 


BY 
FORREST  HALSEY 


New  York 
Desmond  FitzGerald,  Inc. 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 
By  Courtland  H.  Young 

COPYRIGHT,  1912 
By  Desmond  FitzGerald,  Inc. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
COURTLAND  H.  YOUNG 


2126055 


THE  BAWLEROUT 


THE  BAWLEROUT 


CHARKER  AND  COMPANY,  bankers 
to  the  poor,  were  making  loans.  In 
the  dim  light,  on  a  row  of  chairs,  sat  in  fur- 
tive unease  a  motorman  whose  dirty,  coin- 
stained  hands  turned  a  cap  from  which  he 
had  removed  a  number,  a  policeman  who 
had  dropped  the  law's  majesty  from  his 
broad  shoulders  somewhere  outside  of 
Charker  and  Company's  door,  a  pale  man 
with  old  lines  in  a  young  face,  and  a  woman 
with  red,  work-misshapen  hands  and  eyes 
that  said  plainly  they  were  wept  empty. 
At  a  desk  in  the  darkest  corner  sat  a  stout 
woman,  excessively  clean,  excessively  cor- 
seted, with  hot-colored  hair  and  cold-col- 
ored eyes.  Beside  the  desk  was  placed  a 
chair,  and  in  this  chair  had  just  sat  down  a 
young  man  who  had  come  seeking  a  loan 
from  Charker  and  Company  for  the  first 
time. 


2  THE  BAWLEROUT 

It  is  easy  to  tell  the  " first  timers"  in 
Charker  and  Company's  office.  They  come 
quickly  through  the  door,  as  if  in  fear 
that  some  one  should  mark  their  entrance. 
They  watch  the  other  clients  covertly,  as  if 
wondering  if  the  others  wonder  at  their 
presence.  They  follow  the  conversations 
at  the  desk  (Charker  and  Company  does 
nothing  in  private)  with  a  hidden  inter- 
est that  is  painful  to  observe.  Later,  when 
they  become  full-fledged  clients  of  the 
house,  their  manner  is  different.  An  old- 
time  client  of  Charker 's  is  unmistakable. 

11  Now,"  said  the  woman  with  the  hot 
hair  and  cold  eyes,  "what  is  it?" 

"I  want  two  hundred  dollars  for  three 
months, ' '  said  the  young  man  huskily.  The 
sweat  from  his  hands  wetted  the  brim  of 
the  soft  hat  which  turned  and  turned  as  if 
the  hat  were  alive  and  twisted  with  prick- 
ling nerves.  Except  for  the  twisting  hat 
the  young  man  sat  very  quietly.  Even  his 
voice  was  quiet,  and  controlled. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Richard  Allen." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  3 

'  *  Where  do  you  work  ? ' ' 

"With  the  Tobacco  National  Bank." 

"What's  your  position1?" 

"Teller." 

"What  salary  do  you  get?" 

' ;  Eighteen  dollars  a  week. ' ' 

"What's  your  home  address?" 

"Seventeen  Taylor  Street." 

"This  city?" 

"Yes." 

"Ever  borrowed  money  before?" 

"No,"  said  the  young  man  eagerly.  "I 
.  .  .  just  wanted  this  money  as  a  tem- 
porary .  .  ." 

"We'll  look  you  up,"  said  the  woman 
abruptly. 

"No!"  in  alarm,  "I  can't  have  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  bank  would  discharge  me  if  they 
thought — if  they  suspected  that  I  was  deal- 
ing with  you."  He  rose.  "I'll  have  to 
call  the  matter  off."  He  looked  at  her 
firmly  enough,  but  behind  his  eyes  there 
flickered  for  a  moment  a  fear  rather  piti- 
ful to  see  in  the  eyes  of  a  grown  man.  The 


4  THE  BAWLEBOUT 

walls  and  the  woman  of  Charker  and  Com- 
pany knew  that  look. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  said  the 
woman,  "we  do  thousands  of  these  things 
in  a  year.  The  bank  will  never  guess." 

"You  are  sure?" 

' '  Certainly.  Say,  young  man,  somebody 
out  of  every  twenty  people  in  this  town 
comes  to  one  of  these  places  sooner  or 
later.  Now,  if  we  lost  'em  their  jobs 
through  asking  about  them,  where  would 
we  be?"  Her  cold,  business-like  tone  re- 
assured him. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  with  an  eagerness 
which  showed  how  much  that  two  hundred 
dollars  meant  to  him,  "when  shall  I  come 
back?" 

"In  three  or  four  days." 

"Could  you  make  it  earlier?  I  need 
that  money  very  badly." 

The  cold  eyes  took  a  long  look,  then — 

"Well,  day  after  to-morrow." 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  he  said  gratefully.  There 
was  a  suggestion  of  breeding  in  the  boy's 
bow  which  made  the  cold  eyes  follow  his 


slender  figure.  The  muscular  shoulders 
and  lean  young  waist  showed  well  in  the 
cheap  but  immaculate  blue  suit.  Then  the 
door  closed  and  his  shadow  flitted  from  the 
ground  glass. 

The  ground  glass  of  Charker  and  Com- 
pany's door  had  seen  hundreds  of  shadows 
flit  across  it  and  go  away.  In  fact,  Charker 
and  Company  were  something  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  great  shadow  resting  deep  and 
dark  across  thousands  of  lives  of  the  poor, 
the  lowly,  the  needy.  Many  a  man  had 
gone  into  the  gloom  of  that  little  office  only 
to  find  that  there  was  no  way  back  into  the 
sunlight,  and  that  as  he  went  on  the 
shadows  thickened  and  lay  black,  merging 
with  the  dusk  of  prisons,  the  night  of 
graves. 

A  shadow  in  shadows  was  Charker  him- 
self. No  one  knew  who  he  was.  No  one 
ever  saw  him.  Yet  he  was  the  controlling 
force  in  hundreds  of  lives,  the  dominant 
factor  in  hundreds  of  homes.  Women 
worked  their  fingers  bloody  for  Charker. 
Men  grew  old  and  broken  for  Charker. 


6  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

Children  went  hungry  for  Charker.  Like 
a  spider  in  a  particularly  swarming  fly- 
time,  Charker  fed  fat  in  the  rich  and  smil- 
ing city,  and  not  one  of  all  the  rulers 
of  that  city  regarded  him  any  more  than 
they  would  regard  a  spider-web  in  a  back 
alley. 

When  the  woman  had  written  a  few 
words  on  the  blank  before  her,  under  the 
heading  "general  remarks,"  she  filed  the 
paper  and  turned  to  the  motorman  who 
now  occupied  the  chair  beside  her. 

"Well,  Jackson?"  said  the  woman. 

Jackson  produced  a  pay  envelope  and 
extracted  from  it  ten  dollars,  which  he  laid 
on  the  desk.  Not  a  word  did  he  say. 
Long  ago,  before  he  had  learned  how  use- 
less it  was,  he  had  said  everything  that 
was  to  be  said  about  the  wife  at  home  who 
was  sick,  the  children  who  were  hungry. 
Now  Jackson  said  nothing — that  is,  in 
words — but  the  face  of  Jackson  said 
much. 

"I'll  have  to  renew  the  note  again, 
ma'am,"  said  Jackson. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  7 

"See  here,  you,"  said  the  woman,  "we 
are  getting  sick  of  you  and  your  renewals. 
Mr.  Charker  is  gettin'  sick  of  it." 

"Can't  help  it  this  time,  ma'am — you 
see,  the  wife  is  sick." 

' '  Say,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  us  I 
Can  we  help  your  wife  getting  sick?  If 
you  didn't  intend  to  pay  back  that  money, 
what  did  you  come  here  for  1  Do  you  want 
to  do  us  I " 

Whomever  the  man  was  doing,  it  was 
certainly  clear  by  his  broken  shoes  and 
ragged  clothes  that  he  was  not  succeeding 
very  well  in  profiting  by  it  personally. 

"No,  ma'am.  But  you  see  the  super 
has  been  kickin'  against  me  clothes — says 
I  look  too  ragged  fer  the  car.  So  I  gotta 
git  me  a  new  uniform.  One  of  the  boys 
will  sell  me  one  cheap.  An'  if  I  can  just 
git  over  this  time  now — I  can  pay  yuh, 
honest,  lady." 

"What  is  that  to  us?"  cried  the  woman. 
'/Mr.  Charker  says  to  take  out  an'  file  that 
attachment  we  got  on  your  pay. ' ' 

The  man's  brow  broke  into  sweat. 


8  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"We  can't  go  on  this  way,  Jackson,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it.  If  we  don't  get 
that  money,  we  got  to  go  after  it.  Do  you 
want  the  bawlerout  to  come  round  after 
the  money,  or  will  you  come  down  with 
it?" 

Evidently,  by  his  earnest  whisperings, 
the  "bawlerout"  was  the  very  person  that 
Jackson  did  not  wish  to  come  around. 

"Well,  don't  gimme  the  history  of  your 
life,"  cried  the  lady,  "gimme  some  propo- 
sition I  can  put  up  to  Mr.  Charker." 

"I'll  do  anything  you  say,  ma'am,"  said 
Jackson,  well  knowing  from  past  experi- 
ence that  the  lady  was  the  best  judge  of 
what  proposition  would  appeal  to  Mr. 
Charker. 

"Then  I'll  see  if  Mr.  Charker  will  make 
a  new  note,"  said  the  woman. 

"I  hope  he  will,  ma'am.  You  see,  if  the 
wife  and  me  can  just  geij  over  this  time,  we 
think  we  can  sure  pay  you  in  three  months 
more." 

"You've  said  that  for  the  last  two 
years. ' ' 


THE  BAWLEROUT  9 

"Yes,  ma'am,  but  Lizzy — she's  the 
oldest  kid,  ma'am — has  got  a  chance  to 
get  in  the  box  factory." 

"What  chance?" 

"Well,  ma'am,  the  foreman  has  been 
kinder  leary  of  takin'  her  because  she 
looks  so  little,  but  me  an'  the  old  woman 
is  goin'  to  swear  she  is  old  enough."  The 
man's  voice  took  a  dogged  note  to  conceal 
his  inner  thoughts  of  little  Lizzy.  "It's 
rather  hard  on  the  kid,  ma'am,  because  we 
was  hopin'  to  keep  her  a  year  longer  in 
the  school,  but  she's  gotta  help.  So  you 
see  if  she  gets  the  job — " 

"If  she  gets  the  job,  all  right.  If  not, 
you  will  have  to  get  that  money.  Now," 
at  a  movement  from  the  man,  "don't  tell 
me  nothing.  I  can 't  help  it.  Mr.  Charker 
is  the  boss.  When  will  you  know  if  she  is 
to  be  taken  on?" 

"To-morrow,  ma'am." 

"Well,  come  around  to-morrow.  If  she 
goes  on,  we  may  renew.  If  not,  you'll 
have  to  dig  up.  Go  on  now,  I'm!  busy." 

Jackson  shuffled  out.     His  bowed  figure 


10  THE,  BAWLEROUT 

showed  against  the  glass  doors  and  then 
vanished. 

The  policeman  settled  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  chair  by  the  woman's  side.  He 
had  the  same  look  as  the  thief  whom  he 
had  that  morning  taken  before  the  magis- 
trate. He  turned  his  gray  summer  helmet 
uneasily  in  his  white  cotton  gloved  hands. 

"Well,  Leary?"  said  the  woman. 

Leary  looked  down  and  addressed  his 
helmet.  "Ma'am,  if  you'll  hold  off  till  to- 
night, I'll  have  it.  Some  of  the  boys  has 
promised  me." 

The  woman  turned  from  him  and  began 
to  write.  This  action  evidently  filled  the 
officer  with  alarm.  It  was  strange  to  see 
the  abject  manner  of  the  man  who,  beyond 
the  ground-glass  door  of  Charker  and 
Company,  walked  the  way  of  the  autocrat. 

"I  ain't  givin'  you  no  steer,  lady. 
Timmy  Carroll  and  Mike  McLoughlin  has 
promised  me  straight.  And  there  is  a 
saloon-keeper  who  is  goin'  to  come  down  if 
they  don't.  But  I  didn't  call  on  him, 
ma'am,  because  he  has  been  touched  pretty 


THE  BAWLEROUT  11 

heavy  already.  But  he'll  come  down  if 
they  don't,"  in  earnest  explanation,  " be- 
cause he  knows  I  can  do  him  dirt  if  I 
want  to." 

"Why  didn't  you  get  it  from  him  before 
you  came  here?" 

"Because,  lady,  he  stood  wit  me  last 
month  fer  the  interest.  An'  if  I  touch 
him  too  regular  he  may  kick  to  the 
ward  boss.  But  don't  you  worry,  lady, 
I'll  have  the  money  to-night.  You  see, 
lady,  if  you  hadn't  sent  the  other  lady 
to  make  a  row  in  the  house  last  month, 
the  commish  wouldn't  have  fined  me,  an' 
I  could  have  come  down  wit  the  coin  to- 
day witout  no  trouble  to  anybody.  I'll 
have  your  money  to-day,  lady,  sure — but 
please  don't  send  the  other  lady  after  it 
if  I 'ma  little  late."  , 

"You  want  to  learn  to  be  on  the  tick, 
Leary.  If  you  had  been  on  the  tick  last 
month,  we  wouldn't  have  had  to  send  the 
bawlerout  to  the  station-house  after  you. 
And  look  here,  your  sergeant  ain't  no  gen- 
tleman the  way  he  fired  her  out  when  she 


12  THE  BAWLEROUT 

just  come  to  ask  for  you  to  pay  an  honest 
debt." 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Leary  eagerly,  "he 
ain't.  But  the  lady  hollered  so  loud  he 
heard  her  in  his  room.  He  ain't  used  to 
dealin'  wit  ladies,  ma'am." 

The  woman  began  to  write,  paying  no 
more  attention  to  the  officer  than  if  he  were 
a  phonograph  record  of  which  she  was 
tired. 

"You'll  get  that  money  sure,  ma'am, 
sure,"  said  the  officer  as  he  rose,  "and 
please  don't  send  the  lady  after  it." 

He,  too,  flitted  across  the  glass  door  and 
was  gone. 

The  young  man  with  the  old  lines  in 
his  face  slid  into  the  chair,  put  his  hat 
on  the  floor,  reached  into  his  pocket  and 
drew  out  a  few  bills,  which  he  handed  to 
the  woman.  She  counted  the  money  and 
wrote  a  receipt,  which  she  handed  him 
without  looking  at  him.  He  took  it,  stood 
up,  and  looked  hungrily  at  the  money 
which  the  woman  swept  into  a  drawer. 
Then  he  laughed. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  13 

The  woman  looked  up. 

"Give  a  message  to  your  boss  for  me?" 
said  the  man. 

"Very  well  .  .  .  what?" 

'  *  Just  tell  him  to  wash  that  money  pretty 
carefully,  will  you?" 

"Why?"  cried  the  woman,  opening  the 
drawer  to  glance  at  the  bills. 

"Because  it's  got  blood  on  it." 

"Whose?"  said  the  woman  involun- 
tarily. 

"Mine,"  said  the  man,  and  then  his 
shadow  also  flitted  across  the  glass  door 
and  away,  taking  with  it  all  chance  of  know- 
ing what  his  remark  had  implied — that  is, 
if  anybody  in  Charker's  had  cared  to  know. 

The  woman  drew  her  hand  over  the  back 
of  her  hot-colored  hair  as  if  to  see  whether 
its  elaborate  dressing  had  been  in  any  way 
disturbed  by  the  interest  she  had  involun- 
tarily shown  in  the  remark  of  the  client. 
Apparently  finding  that  no  emotion  had 
shown  in  the  violently  peroxided  mass,  she 
turned  to  the  last  client,  the  woman  with 
the  red  hands  and  dry  eyes. 


14  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"Well,  what  do  you  want!" 
' '  Just  a  word  with  you,  miss. ' ' 
' i  How  much  do  you  want  ? '  'i 
"I  don't  want  any  money,  miss." 
Faint    surprise    gleamed    in   the    other 
woman's  eyes. 

"  What  is  it,  then?" 

"I  come  to  ask  you  not  to  lose  my  hus- 
band his  new  job."  The  woman  spoke 
quietly ;  only  the  rough  fingers  of  her  hard, 
red  hands  pressing  together,  told  of  the 
agony  behind  the  hot,  bright  eyes.  "You 
see,  miss,  my  name  is  Clark — Mrs.  Clark. 
My  husband  borrowed  seventy  dollars 
from  your  boss  last  year,  when  little 
Tommy  had  the  typhoid.  At  least,  miss,  it 
paid  the  doctor  and  for  the  funeral.  We 
didn't  spend  none  of  it  on  ourselves,  miss, 
really  we  didn't.  My  man  ain't  that  kind, 
miss,  nor  me  neither." 

And,  truth  to  tell,  the  rusty  brown 
clothes,  showing  the  seams  where  the  cloth 
had  been  turned,  and  the  hat  with  its  one 
discouraged  and  faded  rose,  indicated  that 
she  was  not  ' '  that  kind, "  if  by  "  that  kind ' ' 


THE  BAWLEROUT  15 

was  meant  one  who  spent  money  for  per- 
sonal adornment.  Somehow  one  got  the 
impression  that  "little  Tommy"  had  had 
no  mourning  worn  for  his  death. 

"See  here!"  the  voice  was  not  unkind,  . 
or  kind,  just  business-like,  "I  have  nothin' 
to  do  with  that.  We  got  to  have  our 
money  or  go  out  of  business.  Nearly 
everybody  that  comes  here  has  got  some 
reason  for  coming,  and  we  ain't  got  nothin' 
to  do  with  the  reason." 

"I  know,  miss — and  I  ask  you  to  ex- 
cuse me  for  worryin'  you — and  my  hus- 
band don't  know  that  I  come — but,  miss, 
couldn't  you  just  tell  your  boss  that  my 
man  means  to  pay?  And  I  thought  per- 
haps you  might  just  tell  him,  he  may  have 
forgotten,  you  know,  that  we  have  always 
paid  prompt  and  regular  until  the  last 
time.  I've  figgered  out  that  we  have  paid 
already  more  than  twice  what  Mr.  Charker 
lent  us — not  that  I'm  complainin',  miss," 
this  very  quickly  at  a  movement  from  the 
other  woman,  "but  just  to  show  that  he 
won't  be  so  awful  much  out  if  he  eases  up 


16  THE  BAWLEROUT 

on  us  till  we  get  our  feet  under  us  in  the 
new  place.  Just  give  us  a  week  or  two 
and  we  will  be  all  right.  But — but — if 
that  lady  comes  round  to  the  shop  and  hol- 
lers, the  boss  says  that  my  man  has  to  go, 
that  he  can't  have  nothin'  like  that  go  in' 
on  in  his  shop." 

"Then  why  don't  your  husband  pay 
up?" 

"Because,  miss,  we've  got  behind — one 
thing  or  another  always  comes  up,  and 
the  rent  and  the  food  goes  on,  job  or  no 
job." 

"He  ran  away  from  his  last  job  and  hid 
from  us." 

"No,  miss — they  fired  him  because  he 
owed  the  money  and  the  lady  made  a  row." 

"Well,  he  hid  from  us.  We  had  trouble 
in  finding  him." 

"He  meant  to  pay,  though,  lady."  In- 
tent on  her1  plea,  she  did  not  hear  the  outer 
door  open,  nor  see  the  tall  young  woman 
who  entered  through  it.  "We  didn't  mean 
to  do  you,  miss,  but  we  thought  if  we  could 
be  just  let  alone  for  a  week  or  two  that 


THEl  BAWLEROUT  17 

we  could  get  the  interest  money  for  you. 
That's  all  we  want,  miss,  just  a  little  time 
to  get  on  our  feet  again." 

The  tall  young  woman  was  crossing  to 
go  into  the  inner  office.  The  door  knob 
was  in  her  hand  when  something  in  the 
shabby  woman's  voice  arrested  her.  She 
paused. 

"You  see,  my  man  hain't  had  the  sperit 
to  come  here  and  tell  you  these  things. 
He  hain't  had  much  to  hold  him  up  since 
the  child  died — what  with  the  debt  gettin' 
bigger  all  the  time — and  losin'  the  old  job. 
He  has  kinder  seemed  to  lose  his  grip,  too 
— and  really,  miss,  it  was  not  his  fault  that 
we  fell  back  on  the  interest — I  done  it — I 
took  the  money  we'd  saved  because  the 
little  girl  was  sick  and  the  doctor  fright- 
ened me — I  took  the  money  to  send  her 
away  for  a  week.  I  know  I  had  no  right 
to  do  it,  miss,  nor  him  either,  but  I  had  to. 
You  see,  the  little  girl  is  all  we  have  now, 
so  I  took  the  money  and  sent  her  away. ' ' 

"I  have  got  nothin'  to  do  with  it,"  said 
the  woman  at  the  desk  with  a  hint  of  bore- 


18  THE  BAWLEROUT 

dom  in  her  voice.  She  was  not  hard- 
hearted, but  her  day 's  work  was  her  day 's 
work.  "Mr.  Charker  has  got  to  get  his 
money.  If  he  let  up  on  one  he  would  have 
to  let  up  on  all.  Charker 's  ain't  like  a  big 
bank.  Nobody  has  any  security  that  bor- 
rows from  us,  so  we  have  to  get  our 
money. ' ' 

"All  I  am  askin'  you  for  is  a  week  or 
two."  The  woman  held  out  a  work- 
scarred  hand  imploringly. 

"And  all  I  can  give  you  is  nothin'. 
Tell  your  husband  that." 

The  shabby  woman  got  on  her  feet; 
angry  color  showed  under  the  lines  etch- 
ing her  pallor. 

"You!"  Her  voice  rose  in  angry  de- 
spair, then  as  suddenly  sank  to  the  dull, 
beaten  pathos  of  the  hopeless.  "Yes, 
miss,  I'll  tell  him.  Thank  you,  miss." 
She  turned  to  go. 

"Just  you  wait  a  minute,"  said  a  high, 
clear  voice.  The  owner  of  the  voice 
banged  the  door  of  the  inner  office  and 
strode  forward.  Even  in  the  sickly  light 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  19 

she  looked  clean-cut,  lithe  and  vigorous. 
The  red  in  her  cheeks  was  bright  from 
healthy  blood.  Her  large,  firm,  red  mouth 
had  a  man's  decision  in  its  corners.  The 
even,  white  teeth  were  strong  and  fine. 
Beneath  the  smooth  fit  and  fold  of  the  blue 
walking-suit  the  rough  grace  of  her  body 
spoke  of  athletic  health.  In  the  dim  light 
her  bronze  hair  smoldered  with  live,  red 
lights.  A  rather  refreshing  figure,  this,  in 
the  slouching  procession  that  Charker's 
office  knew. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  demanded 
abruptly. 

"Clark,"  said  the  shabby  woman  hum- 
bly, "Mrs.  Clark." 

"Husband's  name?"  A  man  of  busi- 
ness could  not  have  clipped  his  words 
closer  had  each  word  meant  a  dollar. 

"Joe,  miss." 

"Used  to  work  for  the  National  Roof- 
ing Company!" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"How  much  time  did  you  say  you 
wanted?" 


20  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

"Two  weeks  from  next  Saturday.  You 
see  miss,  that  will  take  us  to  two  pay 
days."  There  was  faint  hope  in  the  hot, 
tired  eyes. 

"You  can  have  it." 

"Miss  Sullivan!"  the  peroxide  lady 
cried  out  with  violence  enough  to  disarray 
her  vivid  puffs. 

"I  say  she  can  have  it."  A  battle-light 
flickered  into  the  Irish  azure  of  the  new- 
comer's eves.  "She  gets  that  two  weeks 
or  you  get  a  new  bawlerout.  I  bawled  her 
husband  out  of  his  last  job,  and  now,  if 
she  wants  this  time  she  is  going  to  have  it. 
You,"  turning  to  the  shabby  woman,  "you 
go  along  and  tell  you  husband  that  I  say 
it's  all  right.  I  guess  from  what  he  saw 
of  me  he  knows  when  I  say  a  thing  I  mean 
it.  Don't  talk,  don't  cry — get  out — go 
home."  She  put  a  rough  hand  on  the 
shaking  brown  shoulder  and  pushed  the 
wife  of  Joe  Clark  from  the  room.  Then 
she  banged  the  door,  following  which  she 
strode  to  the  desk  and  faced  the  female  of 
the  vivid  puffs. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  21 

"Now  make  your  kick  quick  and  get  it 
over,  Mrs.  Froder,"  she  demanded. 

Mrs.  Froder  opened  her  lips;  then,  as 
she  saw  the  blue  swords  of  eyes  drawn  on 
her,  she  closed  them  again. 

"Why  did  you  do  that,  Miss  Sullivan?" 
asked  Mrs.  Froder  finally. 

"Because  the  sight  of  an  old  woman  in 
trouble  gets  me.  I've  seen  my  mother  look 
just  that  way.  I  told  you  a  hundred  tinres 
not  to  send  me  near  an  old  woman.  Men 
I'll  take  on  any  time,  anywhere,  and  eat 
'em  up  with  joy.  I  know  darn  well  what 
they  are.  But  women,  especially  old 
women — no!  Say,  she  gets  that  two 
weeks,  don't  forget." 

"But,  Miss  Sullivan,  what  will  I  say  to 
Mr.  Sleen?" 

"Nothing.  I'll  say  it."  She  strode  to 
the  door  of  the  inner  office.  "Mr.  Sleen," 
she  called,  ' '  step  in  here. ' ' 

A  man,  fat,  gray-haired,  and  most  vul- 
garly and  obtrustively  clean,  came  into  the 
doorway.  He  smiled  a  fat,  vulgar,  and 
obtrusive  smile. 


22  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Sullivan?"  said  Mr. 
Sleen. 

"It's  this,"  Miss  Sullivan  hastened  to 
inform  him;  "I  have  just  told  Joe  Clark's 
wife  that  he  can  have  two  weeks  more  to 
meet  his  interest  on  that  loan  that  he  has 
paid  twice  over  and  still  owes. ' ' 

Had  Miss  Sullivan  told  Mr.  Sleen  that 
she  had  just  run  a  knife  into  his  mother, 
his  face  could  not  have  expressed  more 
horror.  Every  fat  crease  on  his  broad 
visage  marked  an  outraged  emotion. 

"Miss  Sullivan!"  he  bellowed  in  the 
voice  that  had  made  thousands  of  debtors 
shake  in  their  shoes,  "how  dared  you-? 
You  had  no  authority.  You  take  too  much 
on  yourself." 

"  Do  I  ? "  Miss  Sullivan 's  voice  suddenly 
rose  and  rang  through  the  room.  She 
strode  up  to  him,  her  eyes  blue  lightning. 
"Well,  I'll  take  something  more  on  myself 
if  you  use  that  tone  to  me.  I'll  take  it  on 
myself  to  slap  your  fat  face  for  you. ' '' 

Mr.  Sleen  ran  nimbly  behind  the  per- 
oxide lady. 


THE,  BAWLEROUT  23 

"Miss  Sullivan,  you  can't  browbeat 
me,"  he  said  faintly. 

"Can't  I?"  The  farthest  corridors  of 
the  building  heard  Miss  Sullivan  as  she 
continued. 

"Can't  I?  Say!  if  I  can  handle  your 
dirty  business,  I  can  handle  you.  You  bel- 
low at  me,  will  you?  Say!  I've  walked 
into  places  and  stood  up  to  men  that  would 
scare  the  skin  off  you  just  to  think  of. 
What  are  you,  hey?  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
are,  and  it's  been  on  my  mind  a  long  time 
to  do  it.  Now  I'm  going  to."  The  baw- 
lerout  '  was  in  full  stride  and  nothing 
could  stop  her  but  an  earthquake.  No 
earthquake  taking  place,  she  continued. 
"You're  the  man  who  hides  in  that  office 
there,"  she  pointed  to  the  back  room, 
"hiding  behind  us  women  because  you  are 
afraid  of  the  men  you  are  pushing  down 
to  hell.  You  send  me,  a  woman,  out  into 
the  dives  and  shops  to  wring  the  money  for 
you  from  the  men  that  you  don't  dare  to 
face.  And  you  pay  me  damn  little  for 
doing  it. ' ' 


24  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"You  don't  have  to  do  it,  my  lady," 
snarled  the  fat  man. 

"No,  I  don't  have  to  do  it.  I  could 
work  for  seven  dollars  a  week  and  have  a 
friend  on  the  side,  like  they  told  me  to  have 
when  I  worked  in  the  department  store. 
Or  I  could  work  in  a  quick  lunch  twelve 
hours  a  day  for  nine  dollars  per  week.  Or 
I  could  go  out  on  the  town  and  make  a  nice, 
easy  living.  But  I  am  and  always  have 
been  straight,  and  straight  I'll  stay.  This 
is  the  way  I  make  my  living.  I  don't  like 
it,  but  you  do,  and  that's  just  the  differ- 
ence between  us,  you  fat  stiff. ' ' 

Mr.  Sleen  cowered  a  little  lower  as  if  to 
put  the  bulwark  of  the  peroxided  puffs  be- 
tween himself  and  the  storm  of  words 
hurled  at  his  sleek  head. 

"I'm  your  bawlerout  because  I  can  live 
on  the  salary  you  pay  me.  The  job's 
rotten.  But  I  didn't  ask  it  as  a  favor  to 
be  born  poor.  And  a  job's  a  job.  And  I 
guess  that  old  mother  of  mine  is  a  little 
easier  off  in  Heaven  to-day  because  she 
knows  that  I  pay  for  my  own  clothes." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  25 

"My  dear  Miss  Sullivan !"  quavered  Mr. 
Sleen. 

"I'm  not  your  dear  Miss  Sullivan.  I'm 
your  cheap  Miss  Sullivan,  and  you  know 
it.  You  pay  me  twenty  dollars  a  week  and 
I'm  worth  five  hundred  to  the  office,  and 
you  know  it.  There  ain't  a  man  that  ever 
borrows  a  cent  of  Charker 's  that  don't 
hate  the  very  thought  of  me.  Now  you 
look  here.  You  give  that  time  to  Joe 
Clark,  or  I  '11  walk  out  of  this  office  and  get 
another!  job.  This  town  is  just  full  of  loan 
sharks  that  want  me.  I  guess  I  have  a 
reputation  in  this  town.  And  say,  before 
I  do  walk  out  I'll  just  bawl  out  Charker 
and  Company,  and  when  I  do  I'll  have  a 
reputation  from  coast  to  coast.  Now  what 
do  you  say?" 

The  fat  man,  who  had  turned  an  elegant 
fish  pallor,  broke  hurriedly  into  speech. 

"Why,  why,  Miss  Sullivan — you  have 
a  hasty  temper — I'll  see  what  Mr.  Charker 
says — I  have  no  doubt  that  it  can  be  ar- 
ranged. ' ' 

"Neither  have  I,"  said  Miss  Sullivan. 


26  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"And  as  you  are  so  valuable  to  the  firm, 
I  think  I  can  say  that  it  will  be  arranged. 
Good-day,  ladies — I  have  some  very  press- 
ing things  to  do." 

The  fat  man  ran  nimbly  into  the  inner 
office,  jumping  as  he  did  so  like  a  rabbit 
who  has  been  too  near  a  ferret  and  must 
hurry  home. 

Miss  Sullivan  turned  her  twinkling  eyes 
upon  the  peroxide  lady. 

"Say,  Eveline,  is  there  anything  fun- 
nier than  a  fat  man  when  he  runs  ? ' ' 

The  peroxide  lady  took  a  mirror  and  a 
powder  puff  from  the  desk  drawer  and 
proceeded  to  whitewash  her  visage.  "I 
will  say,  Miss  Sullivan,"  said  the  peroxide 
lady,  "that  I  never  did  see  a  person  so 
fitted  to  marry  a  drinking  man  as  you  are. 
If  I  had  had  your  firmness,  Froder  would 
have  been  alive  to-day.  But,"  she  sighed, 
"I got  such  a  shrinkin'  nature." 

"I  hate  men,"  said  Miss  Sullivan,  jerk- 
ing off  her  hat  and  murdering  it  with  the 
long  pins.  "That's  what  comes  of  having 
a  father." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  27 

"Fathers,  my  dear,  ain't  a  mark  on  hus- 
bands," said  the  widowed  Mrs.  Froder. 

"Fathers  or  husbands,  men  are  men, 
and  I  never  could  see  why  God  made  men 
without  letting  women  be  born  with  clubs 
in  their  hands  and  dynamite  in  their 
pockets."  Miss  Sullivan  threw  her  hat  on 
the  table.  "What's  new?" 

"Here's  a  fellow  to  look  up."  Mrs. 
Froder  handed  over  the  slip  containing  the 
name  of  Richard  Allen. 

"H'm!"  said  Miss  Sullivan,  reading, 
"  'teller  in  the  Tobacco  National  Bank  at 
eighteen  dollars  a  week.'  Huh!  eighteen 
dollars  a  week,  and  a  teller!  I  wonder  if 
the  directors  of  that  bank  go  to  church  on 
Sunday?  " 

"All  bank  directors  go  to  church  on 
Sunday,"  replied  Mrs.  Froder,  adjusting 
a  puff.  "Why  are  you  asking  that  ques- 
tion?" 

"Mrs.  Froder,"  with  the  grace  of  an 
athletic  boy,  Miss  Sullivan  swung  herself 
onto  the  desk,  "I  sometimes  wonder  if  that 
prayer  in  the  Bible  which  says,  'lead  us  not 


28  THE  BAWLEROUT 

into  temptation,'  ought  not  to  be  instead, 
'Lord,  let  us  not  lead  others  into  tempta- 
tion'!" 

"I  never  did  see  a  lady  with  such  sar- 
castic thoughts,"  said  the  proper  Mrs. 
Froder. 

"Well,  in  my  opinion,  hell  is  full  of  peo- 
ple doing  time  for  things  they  made  other 
people  do  on  earth.  But  I  don't  care  if 
that  bank  wants  to  see  how  near  they  can 
come  to  making  a  thief.  It  don't  concern 
me."  Miss  Sullivan  paused  as  a  shadow 
formed  on  the  ground  glass  of  the  outer 
door.  Then  the  door  opened. 

"Pardon  me!"  Young  Allen  came 
hastily  to  the  desk  from  which  the  girl  had 
just  sprung,  and  spoke  anxiously  to  the 
peroxide  lady.  "I  made  one  mistake  in 
that  statement  which  I  wish  to  correct. 
My  address  is  South  Taylor  Street.  The 
city  has  just  extended  the  street  and  insists 
that  we  are  now  South  Taylor  Street." 
He  smiled  with  a  certain  winsome  boyish 
charm  into  the  cold  eyes  beneath  the  hot- 
colored  pompadour. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  29 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Froder. 

The  lad  turned  to  go  and  saw  the  girl 
beside  him.  For  a  moment  the  sight  of 
this  fresh  and  surprising  face  in  the  dingy 
office  arrested  his  attention.  Suddenly, 
with  a  boyish  impulse  of  recognition  for 
her  general  appearance,  he  smiled  a  second 
time,  bowed  to  her  and  went  out. 

"There  is  your  game,  Miss  Sullivan," 
said  the  peroxide  lady. 

"The  fresh  guy!  I  would  just  love  to 
bawl  him  out,"  said  Miss  Sullivan. 


II 

CHAKKER,  whoever  that  mysterious 
individual  was,  had  a  most  complete, 
not  to  say  remarkable,  way  of  finding  out 
all  about  a  possible  client.  No  detective 
agency  was  so  well  equipped.  There  were 
simple  means  at  hand  to  be  used  in  a  case 
like  the  present,  which  called  for  the  serv- 
ices of  Miss  Sullivan  and  her  fellow  em- 
ployes. When  more  complicated  proc- 
esses were  required  Charker  had  only  to 
call  on  the  loan  sharks  all  over  the  country. 
Should  a  client  run  away,  these  other  com- 
panies were  most  brotherly  and  kind  in 
helping  to  run  him  down.  Quite  a  band  of 
brothers  were  Charker  and  his  kind.  They 
had  been  known  to  make  most  noble  efforts 
in  one  another's  behalf.  Cases  had  oc- 
curred in  which  some  defrauding  miscre- 
ant, who  had  hoped  to  escape  from  the 
clutches  of  one  of  them,  had  been  followed 
over  half  the  country,  and  even  into  for- 

30 


THE  BAWLEROUT  31 

eign  countries,  and  made  to  pay  his  honest 
debts — or  else  take  his  dishonest  life. 

As  a  general  thing,  the  clients  of 
Charker  and  Company  cannot  run  far. 
Long1  flights  need  long  bank  accounts.  No- 
body with  a  bank  account  comes  to 
Charker.  Then,  too,  a  client  of  Charker 's 
and  his  kind  generally  hasi  hostages  for  his 
good  behavior,  a  wife  or  children  who  can- 
not be  left  by  the  bread-finder  to  starve.  A 
nice,  safe,  easy  business  is  Charker 's.  A 
map  of  the  loan  sharks'  operations  would 
show  a  vast  web  covering  the  whole  coun- 
try. The  meshes  of  that  web  are  thickest 
iri  the  cities  where  it  hangs  heavy  with  vic- 
tims, some  still  struggling,  most  hanging 
motionless,  spun  around  with  mesh  on 
mesh,  gradually  being  sucked  dry.  Yes,  a 
nice,  safe,  easy  business  is  Charker 's. 

In  a  neat  little  house  on  one  of  the  tree- 
shaded  streets  of  the  city  a  pretty  little  old 
lady  peeked  between  the  lace  curtains  of 
the  parlor  to  see  who  it  was  that  had  rung 
her  bell.  The  sight  of  the  well-groomed 
young  woman  on  the  doorstep  sent  the  little 


32 

old  lady  hurrying  to  get  a  little  lace  cap, 
which  she  pinned  on  her  white  hair — a 
pretty  little  cap  which  was  just  large 
enough  to  hide  the  fact  that  the  white  hair 
was  getting  a  trifle  thin  on  top,  and  just 
small  enough  to  suggest  that  the  cap  had 
nothing  to  hide,  after  all.  Then  the  little 
old  lady  pulled  down  her  dress  in  front, 
which  is  a  habit  of  little  old  ladies  that 
no  masculine  mind  can  explain,  and  then 
she  opened  the  door  to  her  caller. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Allen!"  said  the  caller. 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  old  lady. 

"May  I  take  a  little  of  your  time?"  said 
the  newcomer. 

The  little  old  lady  rather  suspected, 
from  something  about  the  business-like 
look  of  the  tall  young  lady's  dress  and 
bearing,  that  the  tall  young  lady  was  a 
book  agent.  But  the  little  old  lady  be- 
longed to  a  time  that  was  courteous  even 
to  book  agents,  so  she  said: 

' '  Yes ;  please  come  in. "  ' 

Once  in  the  little  parlor,  where  wax 
flowers  stood  under  glass  shades,  and 


THE  BAWLEBOUT  33 

grinning  china  puppies,  perched  on  each 
end  of  the  mantelpiece,  gazed  forth  as 
if  they  would  like  to  give  the  caller  a 
30 vial  bite,  the  little  old  lady  was  con- 
vinced by  the  young  woman's  stiffness 
that  she  would  presently  have  to  refuse  to 
buy,  as  politely  as  she  could,  of  course,  and 
with  due  regard  for  the  caller's  feelings, 
either  a  book,  a  patent  washboard  or  a 
vacuum  cleaner. 

The  caller  did  not  speak  at  once,  so  the 
little  old  lady,  much  against  her  will,  for 
one  should  not  ask  anybody  to  whom  one 
has  opened  the  front  door  what  she  wanted 
in  one's  home,  said: 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  miss?" 

The  tall  young  woman  did  not  look  at 
the  little  old  lady  as  she  replied: 

"Have  you  any  gentlemen  in  the  house, 
Mrs.  Allen?" 

"Oh,  dear,"  sighed  the  little  old  lady 
mentally,  "she  does  want  to  sell  some- 
thing, and  I  shall  have  to)  hurt  her  feelings 
by  refusing  to  buy  it."  Then  aloud, 
"Only  my  son,  Miss — "  She  paused, 


34 

waiting  for  a  name  to  be  given  her  by 
which  she  could  address  her  guest. 

"Is  he  in?     Can  I  see  him !" 

"My  son  is  not  here  now.  He  is  at 
the  bank.  He  is  teller  at  the  Tobacco 
National  Bank."  For  the  life  of  her  she 
could  not  prevent  a  bit  of  pride  showing 
in  her  voice.  It  is,  of  course,  not  the 
thing  to  boast  of  one's  brilliant  son  who 
is  teller,  but  there  are  some  temptations 
which  were  never  meant  for  mothers. 

•  'A  teller?  That  is  a  very  fine  position. 
But  I  suppose  your  son  is  a — middle-aged 
man?"  i 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!"  The  little  old  lady 
simply  could  not  help  liking  the  tall 
young  woman  when  she  saw  how  im- 
pressed she  was  by  this  statement.  And 
it  was  beyond  human  power  not  to  add: 
"The  bank  thinks  very  highly  of  my  son. 
The  cashier,  Mr.  Downs,  has  told  me 
that  he  is  so  quick  and  industrious.  Mr. 
Downs  is  very  kind  to  Dick — my  son.  He 
has  been  very  kind.  My  husband  and  Mr. 
Downs  were  old  friends." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  35 

"I  am  surprised  at  what  you  tell  me. 
Your  son  has  a  most  responsible  position 
for  a  young  man. ' ' 

"He  is  only  twenty-four,  and  has  been 
with  the  Tobacco  National  since  he  was 
fourteen." 

"Indeed?  You  must  be  very  proud  of 
him.  Very  few  mothers  nowadays  can 
boast  of  having  such  a  steady  boy." 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  are  wrong."  The 
little  old  lady  spoke  with  pity  in  her 
voice  for  all  the  other  mothers1  who 
could  not  have  her  own  wonderful  boy 
for  their  comfort.  "I  know  that  things 
have  changed  very  much,  and  young  peo- 
ple with  them.  This  city,  my  dear  young 
lady,  has  changed  so  that  I  hardly  recog- 
nize it.  I  remember  when  it  was  a  little 
bit  of  a  place,  but  it  has  grown  so  big  since 
all  the  factories  came,  and  so  rich,  and  has 
so  many  temptations  now,  that  I  pity  the 
mothers  of  boys  who  are  growing  up  in  it. 
It  sometimes  frightens  me  when  Dick  takes 
me  downtown  to  the  theater — he  is  so  con- 
siderate in  taking  me  out  whenever  he  can 


36 

— and  I  see  all  those  new  places  on  Broad 
Street,  the  cafes  and  the  dancing  halls,  lit 
up  and  full  of  gayety,  all  so  attractive  to 
the  young — when  I  see  these  things  and  re- 
member that  there  is  only  one  old  woman 
at  home  to  make  that  home  attractive  for 
her  boy,  and  realize  how  little  she  can  do 
to  make  it  attractive,  well  then,  my  dear," 
— she  smiled  the  ghost  of  a  wistful  smile  as 
she  thought  of  how  quiet  the  home  was, 
and  how  old  she  was — ' '  then  I  wonder  how 
my  boy  manages  to  go  on  being  so  good  to 
me,  and  I  thank  the  Lord  who  has  not  tried 
me  like  other  mothers.  Young  men  have 
so  many  temptations  since  the  city  has 
grown — so  many  temptations ! ' '  She  gave 
a  sigh  at  the  thought  of  all  the  boys  in  the 
big  city  that  flared  every  night  its  invita- 
tion to  its  sons. 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  a  girl's  tempta- 
tions in  this  town?"  said  the  other  abruptly 
and  harshly.  "I  do  not  mean  a  girl  in  a 
home  like  this  or  with  a  mother  like  you. 
I  mean  a  poor  one,  tossed  out  into  the  town 
to  sink  or  swim.  What  are  your  son's 


THE  BAWLEROUT  37 

temptations  to  hers?"  She  flushed  with 
angry  annoyance  as  she  realized  that  the 
thought  which  had  entered  her  mind  had 
passed  her  lips.  ' ' I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs. 
Allen,  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that — it  just 
hopped  out.  How  could  you  know  any- 
thing about  a  girl  who  has  to  face  the 
world?" 

1 '  My  dear, ' '  said  the  soft,  gentle  old 
voice  kindly,  "I  faced  poverty  suddenly 
in  my  old  age,  before  my  boy  could  help 
me.  I  have  seen  a  bit  of  the  world  even 
from  these  windows  in  this  old  street. 
My  heart  goes  out  to  anyone,  man  or 
woman,  who  has  to  fight  it,  but  most  of 
all  to  a  girl.  Sometimes  I  am  glad  that 
the  Lord  never  sent  me  any  other  child 
but  my  son.  He  came  as  a  great  blessing 
late  in  my  life,  and  is  a  comfort  to  me  now 
in  my  advancing  years.  I  am  glad  that  I 
have  no  daughter — I  do  not  think  that  I 
could  quite  face  the  idea  of  dying  and  leav- 
ing a  daughter  to  meet  the  world  alone. 
The  Lord  has  been  so  good  to  me — so 
good,  in  my  son." 


38  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"Your  son  ought  to  be  good  to  you," 
said  the  girl  harshly. 

' '  He  is— oh,  he  is ! "  The  little  old  lady 
lived  much  alone.  Her  friends  of  the  long 
ago  were  dead  or  had  moved  out  of  the 
quiet  street 'and  far  from  her  life.  She 
had  very  few  opportunities  of  talking  to 
anyone  about  her  son.  "He  is  very,  very 
kind.  But  you  must  excuse  an  old  woman 
for  running  on  about  the  one  subject  that 
she  should  remember  has  little  interest 
for  anyone  but  herself.  What  is  it  you 
wish  us  to  do  for  you,  my  dear  young 
lady?" 

A  deep  blush  stained  the  face  above  the 
immaculate  stock.  "I  have  a  book  to  sell 
— but  it  won't  do  for  your  son — it  is  only 
for  those  in  manual  trades.  I  must  go." 
She!  stood  up. 

The  old  lady  stood  up  also.  She  looked 
very  sweet  and  old-timey  standing  with 
one  white  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  the 
red  rocker  with  its  crocheted  tidy,  a  white 
hand  that  had  been  beautiful  once,  before 
the  rheumatism  disfigured  it.  Behind  her 


THE  BAWLEROUT  39 

the  wax  flowers  on  the  mantel  showed  un- 
der the  glass.  The  flowers,  like  the  little 
old  lady,  were  faded  and  fragile,  some- 
thing made  to  be  shielded  under  glass  for 
the  adornment  of  a  quiet  home. 

"I  wish  you  success,  my  dear,"  said  the 
little  old  lady  when  she  opened  the  front 
door  for  the  departing  guest. 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  hurried  into 
the  street  under  the  shadows  of  the  leafy 
elms.  A  quiet  old  street.  No  one  could 
imagine  anything  much  happening  in  that 
street.  It  suggested  peaceful  lives  lived 
out  behind  the  drawn  curtains  of  quiet 
homes.  But  all  streets  are  open  to  the 
feet  of  Fate — Fate  that  some  day  must 
knock  at  all  doors.  Fortunate  the  door 
upon  which  it  knocks  gently. 

"I  hate  this  part  of  the  job!"  said  Miss 
Sullivan  with  violence.  "Why  do  the  men 
who  come  to  Charker's  have  mothers?" 

Next  day  Mr.  Richard  Allen,  on  arriv- 
ing at  the  office  of  Charker  and  Company, 
was  given  a  contract  of  five  closely  printed 
pages  to  sign.  The  print  was  too  minute 


40  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

to  be  read  in  the  dim  light,  and  if  it  had 
been  decipherable  it  would  have  taken  a 
good  lawyer  a  long  time  to  find  out  what  it 
really  meant.  He  signed  the  contract, 
thereby  bestowing  on  Charker  and  Com- 
pany numerous  rights  and  powers,  chief 
of  which  was  the  right  to  take  his  salary 
from  him  at  any  time  that  he  failed  to  pay 
Charker  and  Company's  demands.  He 
was  then  given  two  notes  to  ornament  with 
his  signature.  One  note  was  for  two  hun- 
dred dollars  at  an  interest  rate  of  six  per 
cent,  per  annum.  The  second  note  (hav- 
ing, of  course,  no  relation  to  the  first,  as 
Charker  could  prove  any  time  he  wanted 
to)  was  for  a  further  sum,  and  when  this 
further  sum  was  paid,  it  would  be  discov- 
ered that  Charker  was  getting  interest  at 
the  rate  of  twelve  per  cent,  a  month  on  the 
two  hundred  dollars.  He  then,  after  some 
protest,  received  the  sum  of  one  hundred 
and  ninety  dollars  in  cash,  and  a  good-day 
from  the  lady  in  the  peroxided  puffs. 

In  the  street  the  sun  was  hot  and  bright ; 
after  the  dim  office  it  was  fairly  dazzling. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  41 

The  farm  wagons  from  the  country,  which 
lapped  the  suburbs  of  the  big  city,  were 
going  home  empty  from  the  morning  mar- 
kets. From  the  tall  steel  skeleton  that 
was  to  be  the  city's  first  skyscraper  the 
hammers  of  the  iron  workers  alternated 
with  the  pecking  of  a  drill  in  an  obligato 
on  the  growing  prosperity  of  the  city. 
Old  stores  were  being  torn  down  to  be  re- 
placed by  newer,  finer  ones.  The  dust 
from  the  falling  masses  of  rubble  floated 
from  socketless  windows  as  if  the  street 
were  burning  up  with  new  prosperity. 
Great  industries  had  lately  come  to  the 
place  and  given  it  a  wonderful  push  in  the 
rank  of  cities.  Real  estate  brokers'  signs 
glittered  from  many  windows.  As  the 
young  man  passed  the  real  estate  auction 
rooms  he  had  to  push  his  way  through  a 
crowd  which  overflowed  onto  the  side- 
walks. Over  the  heads  he  could  see  a 
shouting  auctioneer.  Everywhere  in  the 
crowds,  in  the  new  fronts  of  the  stores, 
could  be  seen  the  evidences  of  the  awaken- 
ing of  the  conservative  old  town. 


42  THE  BAWLEROUT 

Allen  frowned  a  little.  "Gee,  what 
money  there  is  to  be  made  here  if  a  man 
had  a  chance!  Well,"  he  gave  a  humor- 
ous and  rueful  laugh,  "the  next  time  I  en- 
dorse for  a  friend  I  will  take  myself  by 
the  back  of  the  neck  into  some  quiet  place 
and  plant  a  kick  where  it  will  do  the  most 
good.  Poor  Ben!  What  does  a  man 
want  to  get  married  for  on  nothing?" 
The  memories  of  Ben  Hazzard's  desperate 
pleadings  when  the  little  wife  hung  be- 
tween life  and  death  after  giving  another 
life  to  front  Poverty  and  Fate,  came  to 
him.  "Oh,  well,  he'll  pay  me,"  thought 
the  boy,  "and,  anyway,  I  can  scrape 
enough  to  pay  this  off  somehow.  Charker 
will  not  mind  renewing  if  the  interest  is 
kept  up.  Ben  will  pay  when  he  gets  on 
his  feet,  and  it  would  have  worried  mother 
sick  if  the  duns  had  got  after  me.  I  can 
pay  this  bit  by  bit.  It  will  be  a  pull,  but 
I  can  do  it.  I  ought  never  to  have  backed 
Ben's  note.  But  if  the  fellows  that  are 
having  a  hard  time  didn't  help  each  other 
over  the  tight  places,  what  in  the  devil 


THH  BAWLEROUT  43 

would  become  of  us,  anyway?  I  can  pay 
it.  Good  thing  that  there  is  a  place  like 
Charker's  to  help  us  small  fry  out.  Darn 
them  for  skins,  though!" 

"Hello,  Dick." 

A  young  girl  was  sitting  in  a  smart  little 
trap  at  the  door  of  the  Tobacco  National 
Bank — a  very  pretty  girl,  with  the  kind  of 
eyes  that  seem  to  be  saying  all  the  time, 
"What  a  jolly  place  the  world  is." 

Mr.  Allen  hastened  to  the  side  of  the 
smart  trap,  and  then  gave  vent  to  a  long 
whistle. 

"My  goodness!  You  look  like  a  piece 
of  Newport.  Where  did  all  this  splendor 
come  from?" 

"Out  of  the  option  on  the  land  that 
Father  bought  on  Mountain  Avenue,"  she 
twinkled.  "You  did  not  think  that  he 
bought  this  out  of  his  cashier's  salary  in 
your  mean  old  bank,  did  you?  He  sold 
out  his  option  Saturday  and  gave  me  this 
trap  and  horse.  I  have  been  driving  by 
everybody  that  I  know  all  morning  and 
just  making  them  look  at  me." 


44  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

' '  Are  you  going  to  speak  to  me  now  that 
you  belong  to  the  rich?" 

"That  depends  on  how  you  behave.  If 
you  come  out  to  the  house  and  are  suffi- 
ciently awed  by  the  new  parlor  furniture, 
I  may  go  on  doing  it." 

' '  Good  heavens,  new  furniture  too !  I 
had  no  idea  that  I  should  know  any  of 
the  infamous  rich.  All  this  came  out  of 
the  option  your  father  bought  six  months 
ago  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  Dick,  why  didn't  you  go  in  with 
him,  too?  It  took  such  a  little  bit  of 
money.  Father  says  he  told  you  to." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Allen  with  rueful 
amusement,  "just  then  I  was  trying  to 
force  Morgan  out  of  the  Steel  Trust,  and 
it  took  all  my  extra  pocket  money." 

"Go  along  with  you,  and  tell  Father  to 
look  out  of  the  window  and  see  me  drive 
away.  I  guess  he  dares  look  out  of  the 
window  now  that  he  knows  that  he  can  get 
along  without  your  stingy  old  bank." 

' '  Come,  now,  don 't  be  hard  on  the  bank, 
Edith." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  45 

"I  will  be  if  I  want  to,  Dick  Allen.  I 
hate  your  old  bank  and  that  nasty  old 
president  of  yours.  Father  has  just 
lived  in  terror  of  both  of  them  all  these 
years.  When  I  think  of  the  years  poor 
Father  has  slaved  there  counting  out  mil- 
lions on  a  miserable  little  pittance,  and 
afraid  every  minute  that  they  would  make 
up  their  minds  that  he  was  too  old  and 
send  him  away — when  I  think  of  that 
nasty  president  of  yours  always  cutting 
down  salaries  and  letting  the  old  men  go 
because  young  men  are  cheaper  and  the 
bank  can  get  more  out  of  them,  when  I 
think  of  all  that — ugh!"  with  a  shrug  of 
disgust.  "Why,  I  can  remember  from  a 
little  girl  just  wishing  that  I  could  come 
here  and  say  to  Mr.  Bendis,  'You  may  be 
the  president  of  this  bank,  but  I  have  just 
had  somebody  leave  me  millions  and  mil- 
lions, and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  you,  you  mean  old  rich  man,  you!' 
Oh,  I  have  just  longed  time  after  time  for 
something  to  happen  that  I  could  just  go 
and  put  dear  old  Father  under  my  wing 


46  THE  BAWLEROUT 

and  say,  'Now,  dear,  you  are  never  going 
to  be  tired  or  sad  any  more.  You  are 
coming  with  me,  and  never  going  to  see 
your  old  bank  again  as  long  as  you  live.' 
And  oh,  Dick,  Dick!  Father  says  that 
now,  if  the  land  keeps  going  up,  as  it  is 
sure  to  do,  he  can  leave  the  bank  for  ever 
and  ever.  Now  you  run  right  in  and  tell 
him  to  look  out  the  window  at  me,  because 
if  I  don't  move  away  from  here  pretty 
quickly  I  shall  make  a  face  right  at  your 
old  president  in  that  window."  She 
pointed  boldly  with  her  whip  at  the  figure 
of  a  gray-haired,  sharp-faced  man  seated 
in  lordly  splendor  at  a  desk  in  the  luxu- 
rious room  of  the  president,  and  clearly 
discernible  through  the  plate  glass  to  the 
girl  in  her  high  position  in  the  trap.  The 
boy  gave  a  laugh  and  ran  up  the  steps, 
pausing  at  the  top  one  to  call : 

"Will  you  be  too  proud  to  speak  to  me 
if  I  come  round  to-night  f" 

"No,"  the  girl  cried,  "but  don't  make 
it  any  later,  because  I  am  swelling  every 
minute  and  likely  to  blow  up  soon." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  47 

Dick  'Allen  disappeared  into  the  doors 
of  the  Tobacco  National  Bank.  Pres- 
ently, through  a  window,  there  looked  out 
a  little  gray-haired  man  who  seemed  so 
dry  and  withered  that  he  might  have  been 
pressed  when  young  in  a  bank  ledger  and 
kept  there  all  his  life.  When  he  saw  the 
girl  his  face  lit  up  as  if  a  lamp  hacl  been 
turned  on  with  full  love  power  somewhere 
in  his  anatomy.  The  girl  waved  her  whip, 
blew  a  kiss  and  drove  bravely  off.  The 
fact  that  a  wheel  of  the  trap  ran  up  on  the 
curb  and  tried  conclusions  with  the  horse- 
block did  not  detract  from  the  superb  ef- 
fect of  her  departure. 

Within  the  bank  the  rows  of  people  be- 
fore the  windows  of  the  tellers  shuffled 
along  slowly.  Low  voices  and  the  rattle 
of  coins  in  the  counting  machines  mingled 
in  the  symphony  of  the  morning's  work. 
In  the  back,  from  among  the  bookkeepers, 
some  one  was  shouting  to  some  one  else: 
"Third  National  Nashville,  twenty-four 
thousand  fifty — Fanners  and  Traders 
Louisville,  ten  thousand  nine  hundred 


48  THE  BAWLEROUT 

fifty-five  cents — Conway  Gordon  and  Gar- 
net Fredericksburg,  seven  thousand  and 
forty—" 

Dick  Allen  hung  up  his  coat  and  entered 
the  teller's  cage.  He  looked  at  the  piles 
of  money,  the  long  rows  of  gold  coins  in 
the  paper  wrappings,  the  machines  filled 
with  silver  dollars,  the  huge  masses  of 
green  and  yellow  banknotes. 

"Gee!"  said  Mr.  Richard  Allen, 
"money,  money  everywhere,  and  not  a 
blame  cent  of  it  for  me!" 


Ill 

MB.  BENDIS,  president  of  the  Tobacco 
National  Bank,  pillar  of  finance,  pil- 
lar of  the  church,  pillar  of  so  many  things 
that  he  might  just  as  well  have  been  a 
colonnade  and  not  a  man,  sat  in  the  re- 
ception room  of  the  bank  talking  to  a  man 
whose-  heavy  fur  coat  indicated  wealth  and 
whose  heavy  fat  face  indicated  that  he  had 
entered  not  long  ago  from  the  icy  streets. 

"Certainly,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Ben- 
dis,  "we  will  renew  your  loan  at  six  per 
cent.  The  bank  is  glad  to  renew  for  such 
men  as  you,  Mr.  Goldsand." 

Mr.  Goldsand  grunted  something  down 
among  his  chins  to  the  effect  that  was  it 
"all  right,  then?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Goldsand.  That  is 
what  we  are  here  for,  to  loan  money.  No 
man  of  affairs  can  get  along  without  bor- 
rowing money  at  some  time  or  other." 

'  *  What  do  you  hear  about  these  building 

49 


50  THE  BAWLEROUT 

and  loan  companies?"  grunted  Mr.  Gold- 
sand.  Before  the  president  could  answer, 
the  door  opened  to  admit  a  little  old  man, 
the  cashier  of  the  bank,  who,  seeing  that 
the  president  was  engaged,  waited  in  the 
background.  The  little  old  cashier  looked 
singularly  in  place  when  he  was  in  the 
background. 

"I  think,"  said  the  president,  "that  the 
building  and  loan  associations  have  specu- 
lated too  deeply  on  the  rise  in  the  value 
of  property  here.  I  do  not  recommend 
them  as  an  investment.  But  then,  per- 
haps, I  am  too  conservative." 

The  president,  from  his  neatly  pointed 
little  gray  beard  to  his  neatly  polished  lit- 
tle boots,  looked  just  that,  "too  conserva- 
tive." The  cold  little  gray  eyes  of  the 
president  looked  it,  also.  If  eyes  are  the 
window  of  the  soul,  then  the  president's 
soul  was  too  conservative,  refusing  to  lend 
itself  to  any  human  emotion  for  fear  that 
its  capital  might  be  impaired.  Even  the 
bow  with  which  he  dismissed  his  visitor 
was  too  conservative.  His  bow  was  the 


THE  BAWLEROUT  51 

kind  which  said  plainly,  "My  dear  sir,  I 
am  a  little  bow,  but  I  am  too  conservative 
to  be  a  big  one." 

The  president  signed  the  check  which 
the  cashier  handed  him  as  soon  as  the  door 
had  closed  on  Mr.  Goldsand.  He  did  not 
speak.  Somehow  one  got  the  impression 
that  even  in  speech  the  president  was  too 
conservative. 

"A  woman  is  outside  who  wishes  to 
speak  with  you,  Mr.  Bendis,"  said  the 
cashier. 

"Does  she  look  like  a  new  depositor?" 

"No,  sir.  She  is  a  very  humble-looking 
woman. ' '  „ 

"I  can't  see  her." 

The  cashier  turned  to  leave.  Old,  little, 
and  withered  as  he  was,  he  was  strangely 
like  the  president — the  same  point  to  his 
gray  beard,  the  same  repression  in  his 
gray  face.  It  is  curious  how  often  old 
employes  grow  to  look  like  their  employ- 
ers, just  as  old  married  people  often  grow 
to  look  like  each  other.  Strangely  alike 
were  the  president  and  the  cashier,  yet 


52  THE  BAWLEROUT 

strangely  unlike,  also.  The  eyes  of  the 
president  were  cool  and  determined,  show- 
ing nothing  of  his  thoughts,  the  eyes  of  a 
man  who  commands  and  dictates;  while 
the  eyes  of  the  cashier  were  mild,  gentle, 
and  old,  the  sort  of  eyes  that  have  pored 
over  other  people's  business  so  long  that 
they  do  not  appear  to  be  able  to  look  after 
their  own,  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  has 
obeyed  others  for  years. 

"Mr.  Bendis,"  the  old  white  hand  hold- 
ing the  door  knob  shook  slightly. 

The  president  looked  at  the  cashier  very 
much  as  if  the  cashier  were  some  old  piece 
of  live  stock  and  the  president  was  won- 
dering why  he  had  not  sold  him  long  ago. 

"I  heard  you  say  something  about  the 
building  and  loan  companies  when  I  came 
in,"  continued  the  cashier;  "have  you 
heard  anything  definite  about  any  of 
them?" 

"What  you  heard  was  a  confidential 
communication,  Mr.  Downs,  to  one  of  the 
bank's  customers.  I  do  not  care  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter  with  you.  You  know  that 


THE  BAWLEROUT  53 

I  am  too  conservative  to  repeat  for  gen- 
eral information  what  is  my  private  view 
given  in  confidence  to  a  patron  of  the 
bank." 

The  cashier  opened  the  door. 

"Mr.  Downs — " 

The  cashier  closed  the  door. 

"I  heard  to-day  that  some  of  the  em- 
ployes of  the  Chemical  Trust  had  been 
found  to  have  borrowed  on  their 
salaries." 

The  door  to  the  inner  office  opened  and 
young  Allen  entered.  No  one  would  have 
thought  of  calling  him  young  Allen  now. 
The  boy  of  two  years  ago  had  gone,  and  in 
his  place  was  a  haggard  man  with  a  pale 
face  and  morose,  tormented  eyes.  A 
rough  hand  had  wiped  the  boyhood  from 
his  face  and  scarred  that  face  with  lines 
and  hollows.  His  jaunty  neatness  was 
gone,  and  the  old,  blue  summer  suit  shone 
at  back  and  elbow.  Something  plainly 
had  happened  to  young  Allen. 

"Please  inform  the  clerks,"  continued 
the  president,  "that  anyone  borrowing  on 


54  THE  BAWLEROUT 

his  salary  will  be  discharged  instantly 
upon  the  fact  coming  to  my  knowledge." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bendis,  I  will  do  so." 

"We  can't  have  anyone  in  this  bank 
who  does  not  pay  his  debts." 

The  cashier  slipped  noiselessly  out. 

"Mr.  Bendis — "  said  the  boy  painfully. 

"Yes?" 

"Has — has  any  complaint  been  made  to 
the  bank  about  anyone  borrowing  on  his 
salary?" 

The  president  showed  conservative  sur- 
prise at  the  question  of  the  clerk. 

"No.  But  I  simply  want  to  warn  you 
men.  I  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  way 
clerks  are  getting  into  the  habit  of  bor- 
rowing from — from — these  loan  people  on 
their  salaries.  And  we  want  nobody  in 
this  bank  who  is  in  debt." 

"I  will  see  him!"  cried  a  shrill  voice. 

The  door  was  flung  open  and  a  little 
woman  in  a  rusty  bonnet  literally  strode 
over  the  cashier  and  the  teller  in  her 
dash  which  ended  before  the  president's 
desk. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  55 

"I've  been  turned  away  from  his  house 
time  and  again — now  I  will  see  him — Mr. 
Bendis,  Mr.  Bendis!"  She  shook  both 
her  rusty-gloved  hands  at  the  great  man 
and  continued  hysterically,  throwing  all 
her  punctuation  away  in  her  haste  to  have 
her  say  before  she  could  be  put  out.  "I 
don't  care  if  I  never  do  any  more  work  for 
you  what  is  the  use  of  toiling  and  moiling 
if  I  never  get  me  money  six  white  shirts 
and  twelve  petticoats  in  the  wash  every 
week  and  never  a  cent  come  Saturday — " 
She  caught  her  breath  and  sailed  on. 
"And  the  bluin'  ain't  give  me  nor  the  soap 
ain't  give  me  nor  me  rent  non  me  food  and 
I've  waited  and  waited  and  called  and 
called  and  they  always  say  that  ye  can 't  be 
bothered  wit  small  bills,  but  if  I  was  to 
never  get  another  wash  from  yer  house  I 
want  me  money." 

"My  dear  woman!"  said  the  shaking 
cashier. 

"My  good  woman!"  said  the  president. 

"Rich  people  don't  care  how  poor  peo- 
ple lives  and  car  fares  each  way  every  Sat- 


56  THE  BAWLEROUT 

urday  when  I  come  to  your  house  and 
never  a  piece  missing  and  never  a  shirt 
burned  and  all  the  lace  on  them  petticoats 
as  would  drive  a  widder  to  drink  not  to 
scorch  and  it's  more  than  flesh  and  blood 
to  stand  and  work  me  fingers  to  the  bone 
and  then  be  told  you  can't  be  bothered  wit 
small  bills  and  I  won't  go  till  I  git  me 
money  if  you  was  to  knock  me  down  all 
day  and  drag  me  about  by  me  hair ! ' ' 

"Mr.  Downs,"  the  president  betrayed 
no  emotion  whatever;  he  was  far  too  rich 
not  to  do  what  he  pleased  with  his  debts, 
"draw  my  personal  check  for  the  amount 
this  woman  says  her  bill  is,  send  it  in  to 
me  to  sign,  and — er — take  a  receipt  from 
her — and — er — tell  her  that  if  she  ever 
comes  to  my  house  again  I  will  hand  her 
over  to  the  police.  Take  her  out.  That  is 
all." 

The  little  woman  burst  into  tears  as  she 
was  drawn  away,  crying: 

"I  need  every  bit  of  work  I  can  get  but 
I  can't  live  on  nothin'  not  if  you  was  to 
ast  me  on  your  bended  knees  an'  never  a 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  57 

shirt  burned  nor  a  sock  missin'  in  six 
months — " 

The  door  shut  out  her  further  lamenta- 
tions. 

" Allen,"  said  the  president. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"Tell  Mr.  Downs  to  discharge  the  spe- 
cial watchman  and  get  another  who  knows 
how  to  keep  the  gate. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Is  the  telephone  in  my  private  office  re- 
paired yet?" 

"Just  finished,  sir." 

"Have  a  second  one  installed,  so  that  I 
will  not  be  forced  to  use  the  visitors'  room 
for  an  office  again." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  president  rose  and  adjusted  the  fine 
pearl  in  his  tie. 

"Allen,"  said  the  president. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"That  suit  you  are  wearing  is  very 
shabby.  Be  more  careful  in  your  appear- 
ance, as  it  reflects  on  the  dignity  of  the 
bank." 


58  THE  BAWLEROUT 

''Yes,  Mr.  Bendis."  The  scarlet  flamed 
from  collar  to  hair. 

"Are  you  busy  inside?" 

"No,  sir — three  o'clock  has  just  gone." 

"Then  wait  here  till  I  ring.  I  want 
you  to  go  over  my  personal  check  book 
and  tell  me  what  my  farm  cost  me  last 
month. ' ' 

The  president,  having  settled  the  pearl 
to  his  satisfaction,  picked  up  a  basket  of 
papers  from  the  desk  preparatory  to  re- 
tiring to  the  regal  privacy  from  which  the 
rebellious  strike  of  a  socialistic  telephone 
had  banished  him. 

The  boy  watched  the  smooth,  well-mani- 
cured hands  sorting  the  papers.  At  the 
corner  of  the  boy's  mouth  a  little  muscle 
began  to  twitch.  Nerve-racked  people  of- 
ten have  that  little  movement  of  the  mus- 
cle. 

"Mr.  Bendis,"  said  the  boy  huskily. 

The  president  looked  at  him. 

"I  have  been  told — Mr.  Downs  said — 
that  I  was  to  speak  to  you  about  the  raise 
in  my  salary.  It  was  half  promised  me 


THE  BAWLEBOUT  59 

before  the  last  directors '  meeting.  I  have 
been  with  the  bank  ten  years — and  for  the 
last  three  my  salary  has  been  the  same." 
He  tried  to  speak  slowly  to  preserve  some 
shred  of  dignity,  to  hide  from  the  cold 
eyes  his  trembling  anxiety.  "Mr.  Downs 
said  to  speak  to  you,  sir." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  di- 
rectors settle  all  that.  You  men  who  were 
here  when  the  bank  was  a  small  one  must 
remember  that  now  all  those  matters  are 
in  the  hands  of  the  directors." 

"But  I  thought,  sir,  if  you  could  rec- 
ommend it — I — " 

"Your  salary  is  eighteen  dollars  a  week, 
is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"When  I  was  your  age  I  worked  for  ten. 
Eighteen  dollars  is  a  very  fine  salary  for 
an  unmarried  man." 

"There  is  my  mother,  Mr.  Bendis. 
She  is  practically  dependent  upon  me." 

"A  very  fine  salary  for  an  unmarried 
man.  Cut  out  some  of  your  expensive 
pleasures  such  as  you  young  men  indulge 


60  THE  BAWLEBOUT 

in,  and  save  money.  You  will  find  your 
salary  ample.  Frugality,  hard  work,  and 
thrift — that  is  what  makes  success,  Allen. 
I  don't  think  I  can,  in  justice  to  the  stock- 
holders, recommend  any  raises  of  salary 
this  year." 

"Here  is  the  check  you  asked  for,"  said 
a  man  of  about  thirty  in  shirtsleeves  and 
a  green  shade,  entering  the  room;  " shall 
I  wait  while  you  sign  it,  sir?" 

"Yes,  wait.  Allen,  I  will  ring  for  you 
in  about  five  minutes."  The  president 
withdrew. 

"Ben,"  said  Allen  as  soon  as  the  door 
had  closed,  "can  you  let  me  have  that 
money  to-day  instead  of  Saturday?" 

"No,"  said  the  other.  He  was  a  rather 
stout  fellow  and  wore  a  monogram  on  his 
shirt  sleeve.  When  he  wore  that  single 
monogrammed  shirt  he  left  off  his  coat  a 
good  deal.  There  was  a  subtle  suggestion 
of  married  life  in  cheap  flats  about  him. 
"I'll  give  it  to  you  out  of  my  salary  Sat- 
urday. And  then  I  want  to  tell  you  that 
I  hope  it  is  the  last  I'll  hear  of  that  two 


THE  BAWLEROUT  61 

hundred  you  lent  me.  Saturday  we'll  be 
square. ' ' 

Allen  laughed  wearily. 

"You  needn't  laugh  at  me,  Allen,"  con- 
tinued the  other  in  the  typical  anger  of  the 
man  who  has  borrowed  with  the  one  who 
has  lent  him  money.  "You  have  screwed 
every  cent  I  borrowed  out  of  me  now. 
And  let  me  tell  you  my  wife  is  right;  I 
ought  to  have  quit  speaking  to  you  and 
just  handed  you  the  money  in  a  plain  en- 
velope when  I  could  spare  it." 

"So  that's  what  your  wife  says  now?" 
said  Allen  with  a  sneer.  "You  talked 
very  differently  when  you  got  me  to  en- 
dorse your  note." 

"Well,  I  thought  you  were  my  friend. 
I  never  dreamed  that  you  would  have 
hounded  me  like  you  have." 

"I  suppose  you  never  dreamed  when 
you  made  the  note  that  you  would  not  pay 
it,  that,  rather  than  let  it  go  to  protest  and 
lose  me  my  position  here,  I  would  pay  it. 
I  suppose  you  never  dreamed  that,  did 


62  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"See  here,"  both  voices  were  very  low, 
but  what  the  quarrel  lacked  in  sound  it 
made  up  in  fury,  "do  you  mean  to  say  I 
meant  to  stick  you?  And  don't  you  let  me 
hear  that  you  are  going  around  after  next 
Saturday  saying  that  I  haven't  paid  back 
every  cent  I  owed  you ! ' ' 

"Every  cent  you  owe  me!"  Suddenly, 
as  if  he  were  too  tired  long  to  retain  even 
anger,  the  boy's  voice  grew  quiet.  "Ben, 
do  you  know  what  I  owe  on  that  money  I 
borrowed  to  make  good  your  note  1 ' ' 

"No,"  with  sullen,  weak  anger,  "and  I 
don't  care.  I  have  paid  you  all  but 
twenty-five  of  what  I  borrowed,  and  that 
is  enough  for  me." 

"Yes,"  Dick  Allen  said  monotonously, 
"it's  enough  for  you.  And  what  I  have 
got  into  is  enough  for  me.  Ben,  they  are 
hounding  me  to  death.  I  am  waiting  now 
in  mortal  fear  that  they  are  going  to  send 
a  woman  they  have  to  make  a  scene  here 
in  the  bank.  I've  paid  and  paid  and  paid 
until  I  am  sucked  dry — interest,  and  one 
thing  and  another,  every  time  I  have  to  go 


THE  BAWLEROUT  63 

down  there  and  beg  them  to  renew,  and 
every  time  they  have  renewed  they  have 
soaked  me  again.  I  'm  too  shabby  to  work 
in  the  bank,  my  shoes  are  through,  I've 
cut  out  my  lunches — I'm  hungry  now — 
my  mother — "  he  swallowed.  "And 
though  I've  paid  back  the  money  I  bor- 
rowed twice  over,  I  still  owe  them  double 
what  I  did  when  I  began.  Yesterday  I 
was  to  have  gone  to  their  office  to  renew 
again.  I  was  too  tired  to  walk  it  after 
working  here  all  day,  and  I  hadn't  carfare. 
Now  I  am  afraid  before  I  can  get  up  there 
that  woman  will  come.  Borrow  that  last 
twenty-five  from  among  the  boys.  They 
will  lend  to  you.  I  haven't  a  cent  if  that 
woman  comes.  And  if  she  raises  a  row 
my  place  is  gone.  Borrow  it  for  me,  for 
God's  sake,  Benny!" 

"Why  don't  you  borrow  it  for  your- 
self?" 

"I  have  touched  them  all  they  will 
stand.  Get  it  for  me,  Benny.  Don't  you 
understand,  old  man,  that  woman  is  com- 
ing, and  if  I  have  no  money  she  will  make 


64  THE  BAWLEROUT 

a  row.  That  means  my  place,  old  man. 
Get  it  for  me." 

The  president's  bell  rang. 

The  monogrammed  one  mumbled  some- 
thing and  went  in  to  get  the  signed  check 
for  the  president's  laundress.  Dick  Allen 
stood  looking  into  the  icy  street,  watching 
the  struggling,  over-laden,  whip-driven 
horses.  Neither  his  eyes  nor  mind  took 
thought,  however,  of  the  endless  pain  that 
inevitably  enters  into  the  labor  of  the  poor 
under  adverse  conditions,  such  as  icy 
streets  for  the  horse,  or  cold  poverty  for 
the  man.  Standing  there,  picking  at  the 
flesh  of  his  fingers,  he  was  waiting  for  the 
coming  of  the  woman  who  meant  for  him 
Fate. 

The  monogrammed  married  man  re- 
entered  with  the  signed  check  in  his  hand. 

"Will  you  do  it,  Ben?  Will  you  try  to 
borrow  that  money?"  said  young  Allen 
eagerly,  almost  pathetically. 

"No,"  under  the  green  shade  the  full 
face  glowered  in  sullen  anger,  "I  can't. 

I  promised  my  wife  that  I  would  never 


THE  BAWLEROUT  65 

borrow  any  more  money.  It  would  hurt 
me  with  the  bank  if  they  found  it  out. 
I'm  a  married  man  and  I  have  got  a  wife 
and  family  to  think  of." 

' '  Damn  you ! '  *  said  Allen  furiously,  and 
drew  back  his  arm  to  plant  it  in  the  fat 
face.  The  married  one  drew  nimbly  back 
and  reached  for  the  door  handle. 

"Do  you  want  to  lose  both  of  us  our 
jobs?"  he  cried  in  alarm. 

The  door  which  he  held  was  pushed 
open.  Radiant  in  fur  coat,  her  face  glow- 
ing like  a  rose  against  the  dark  fur,  en- 
tered Edith  Downs. 

"Hello,  Dick.  Excuse  me,"  this  to  the 
married  man,  who,  taking  advantage  of 
the  diversion,  disappeared.  "I  came  to 
see  Father.  How  is  it  you  are  not  work- 
ing in  your  cage  ? '  ' 

"I  am  waiting  for  the  president  to  call 
me.  He  is  in  there." 

"Is  he?"  Miss  Downs  made  a  face  at 
the  door  behind  which  was  the  lord  of  the 
bank.  "Well,  Dick,  I  want  a  word  with 
you,  sir.  Where  were  you  last  night?" 


66  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"I  was  too  tired  to  come  around, 
Edith." 

"Too  tired!"  The  pretty  brows 
arched.  "That  is  a  nice  thing  to  say  to 
the  girl  you  are  engaged  to." 

"Excuse  me,  dear,  but  that  is  the  truth. 
I  was  dead  beat."  He  took  her  hands 
and  continued,  in  fear  of  the  frown  which 
had  gathered.  * '  You  see,  I  knew  that  you 
were  going  to  have  some  people  there. ' ' 

"That  is  just  why  I  wanted  you,  Dick. 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  lately  1 ' ' 

"Nothing,"  sai$  the  boy. 

' '  Yes,  there  is.  And  now  I  am  going  to 
have  it  out  with  you."  She  threw  her 
muff  on  the  table  and  sat  down,  opening 
her  furs  at  the  throat  and  showing  a 
glimpse  of  a  very  pretty  costume.  The 
boy  would  not  have  been  half  a  boy  if  the 
piquant  face  had  not  made  his  heart  give 
a  little  quicker  movement.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  thought  of  the  woman  who  was 
coming,  left  him.  He  was  the  lover,  anx- 
ious to  smooth  the  frown  from  the  adored 
brow. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  67 

"Awh  now!"  however,  was  all  that  he 
could  think  of  just  at  the  moment  by  way 
of  apology.  Strangely  enough,  "awh 
now"  failed  to  appease  the  lady. 

"You  are  not  treating  me  right,"  she 
averred.  "What  does  it  look  like  for  me 
to  tell  everybody  that  you  are  coming,  and 
then  for  you  not  to  come?  You  are  not 
just  to  me,  Dick.  And  you  never  take  me 
to  the  theater  any  more.  Being  engaged 
to  you  is  just  like  going  to  the  church  so- 
ciable and  finding  that  the  ice  cream  has 
given  out  before  we  got  there.  You  have 
broken  three  engagements  with  me  in  the 
last  two  weeks.  I  am  not  going  to  stand 
it,  so  there!" 

He  gave  a  swift  glance  at  the  president's 
door  and  took  her  hand. 

"Don't  you  get  angry  with  me,  please, 
Edith.  I  have  a  lot  of  things  on  my  mind 
just  now. ' ' 

"What  things?  Your  old  bank,  I  sup- 
pose !  Let  go  my  hand — if  you  are  afraid 
of  your  old  president  seeing  you  holding 
it. ' '  She  drew  away  the  hand  and  used  it 


68  THE  BAWLEROUT 

to  fasten  her  furs  at  the  throat  and  to  ad- 
just her  hat. 

" Who's  afraid  of  him?"  His  old  grin 
came  back,  making  him  look  for  a  moment 
like  the  boy  who  had  gone  into  Charker's 
that  summer  day  more  than  two  years  ago. 
"What  is  more,  I'll  show  you  if  I  am 
afraid  of  him,"  and  he  kissed  her. 

The  president's  bell  rang. 

"What  is  that  old  bell  ringing  for?" 
said  the  girl,  her  eyes  still  bright  and  soft 
from  his  kiss. 

"Forme." 

"Well,  don't  go  just  yet.  Let  the  old 
thing  wait." 

"But  I  must,  dear." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Richard  Allen," 
the  frown  returned  in  full  force,  "that  you 
think  more  of  that  bell  than  you  do  of 
me?" 

He  looked  dazed.  "But — "  he  mur- 
mured. 

The  bell  rang  again.  The  young  lady 
regarded  the  bell  as  a  challenge  and  rose 
to  the  battle  nobly. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  69 

"You  sit  right  down  there,"  with  an 
imperious  point  to  a  chair,  "and  hear 
what  I  have  to  say  to  you. ' ' 

"But,  Edith,"  cried  the  lover  distract- 
edly. 

"Don't  'but  Edith'  me." 

"But  I—" 

"Or  'but  I'  me,  either.  If  you  don't 
think  enough  of  the  girl  you  are  engaged 
to  to  give  her  a  few  minutes  of  your 
time — " 

' '  Brrrrrrrrzzzzzz ! ' '  said  the  bell. 

"How  can  I?  You  don't  understand 
j » 

"Yes,  I  do  understand.  Now,  I  want 
to  know  if  you  are  going  to  take  me  to  the 
dance  next  Monday  or  if  you  are  going  to 
make  more  excuses?  Because,  if  you 
don't  take  me,  I  shall  have  to  get  another 
escort. ' ' 

' '  Brzrzrzrzrzrz !  BRZRZRZRZRZ ! ! " 
came  from  the  bell. 

"Edith,  I  will  be  right  back.  I  must  go 
to  the  president. ' ' 

"You  can   answer  me  now,  right  off. 


70  THE  BAWLEROUT 

If  you  don't,  you  won't  find  me  here  when 
you  get  back." 

"Dear,"  he  caught  both  her  hands  and 
wrung  them  in  the  violence  of  his  emotion, 
"I  can't  go  with  you." 

She  drew  her  hands  away  and  turned  to 
the  door.  He  caught  her  by  both  shoul- 
ders and  turned  her  face  back  to  his.  "I 
can't  go  because  I  have  no  evening  clothes. 
That  is  the  reason  why  I  have  not  come 
to  your  parties.  I  have  none,  I  have  had 
to  pawn  them.  Now,  do  you  under- 
stand!" 

"Do  you  understand  that  I  have  been 
ringing  for  you,  Allen  ? ' '  said  the  president 
from  the  open  doorway. 

Allen  dropped  his  hands  from  the  girl's 
shoulders  and  turned  a  flushed  face  to  his 
employer.  The  girl  threw  open  her  coat 
once  more  and  nodded  her  head  to  the  in- 
terrupter. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Bendis.  Isn't  it 
a  cold  day?"  she  said  smiling. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Downs.     Allen," 


THE  BAWLEROUT  71 

said  the  president,  and  returned  to  Ms 
regal  privacy. 

"Wait — you  have  got  to  wait  now, 
Edith, "  whispered  Allen  fiercely.  "You 
must,  dear." 

"I  won't  wait.    I  don't  believe  you." 

"Allen,"  called  the  president. 

The  boy  looked  in  agony  at  the  girl, 
then  at  the  door  of  the  presence  chamber. 
Miss  Downs  took  her  muff  from  the  table. 

' i  Allen ! ' '  called  the  voice  within. 

"Go  to  hell!"  exclaimed  the  boy,  and, 
hurrying  to  the  girl,  he  drew  her  hand 
from  the  door  knob.  * '  Edith,  I  am  desper- 
ate— wretched — everything  is  going  back 
on  me.  Don't  you  go  back  on  me, 
dear."  He  drew  her  from  the  door. 
"Just  a  little  while,  and  I'll  come  right 
back.  The  bank  has  my  time,  but  you 
know  what  you  have  got,  and  that's 
me.  Now,  here,"  he  dragged  her  to  a 
chair,  "you  sit  down,"  and  he  thrust 
her  into  it,  "and  here  is  a  kiss,"  he 
gave  it  to  her.  "Now  you  just  sit  there 


72  THE  BAWLEROUT 

and  I'll  bring  you  back  another."  He 
grinned  his  old  grin  and  ran  into  the  presi- 
dent's room. 

"I  won't  wait."  She  sprang  to  her 
feet.  Then  she  sighed.  "Yes,  I  will." 
Then  she  sat  down. 

After  all,  the  strong  hand  and  the  ready 
lip  have  still  some  weight  with  women. 


IV 


THE  lady  had  decided  to  stay,  but  the 
frown  stayed,  also.  A  horrible 
thought  had  occurred  to  the  lady.  Could 
it  be  that  the  person  with  whom  she  had 
consented  to  pass  the  rest  of  her  life  was 
stingy?  All  this  economizing,  this  selling 
of  evening  garments — what  did  that 
mean?  Was  the  person  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  heart  close ?  She  gave  a  shud- 
der at  the  awful  possibility. 

Do  not  blame  her  for  that  shudder. 
Surely  there  are  few  better  causes  for 
shuddering  in  this  free-handed  America  of 
ours.  And  as  she  sat  there,  pretty,  deli- 
cate, and  fragile,  the  girl  in  her  person 
was  typical  of  her  country.  In  another 
country  a  girl  of  her  class  would  have  had 
the  class  stamped  on  her  in  heavy  outline, 
or  too  full-blown  beauty.  But  this  girl, 
from  the  small  arched  foot  in  the  dainty 
shoe  too  small  for  it,  to  the  elaborate  and 

73 


74 

pretentious  dressing  of  her  fine  blonde 
hair,  looked,  what  so  few  of  the  born  aris- 
tocrats do  look,  aristocratic.  She  was  a 
typical  product  of  this  republican  country, 
in  that,  like  so  many  of  its  women,  she  did 
not  look  republican.  Rather  strange, 
when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  how  our 
women  do  give  the  lie  to  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  and  prove  in  their  dainty 
persons  that  we  are  far  from  being  all 
born  equal.  Typical  also  of  her  country 
had  been  her  training.  One  might  hear 
any  day  at  the  Downs'  breakfast  table  a 
remark,  which,  repeated  daily  in  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  homes,  sums  up  the  Amer- 
ican attitude  toward  the  children.  The  re- 
mark, varying  slightly,  is  this:  " Mother 
(or  Father),  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about. ' ' 

From  her  babyhood  the  girl  had  been 
the  first  consideration  in  the  Downs  home. 
The  mother  might  wear  a  bonnet  so  old 
that  only  the  framework  held  it  together, 
but  the  daughter's  hats  followed  the  styles 
the  minute  they  came  out,  and  frequently 


THE  BAWLEROUT  75 

passed  them  on  the  road.  Her  father, 
winter  after  winter,  appeared  in  the  same 
overcoat  and  smelled  furiously  of  moth 
balls  for  weeks  after  its  appearance,  but 
the  daughter's  coat  was  always  new. 
Fate  had  presented  the  Downs  with  a  very 
pretty  daughter,  and  the  Downs  fostered 
and  tended  that  prettiness  with  a  very 
passion  and  personal  renunciation  which 
would  have  been  beautiful  had  it  been 
leavened  by  the  fostering  of  the  other  fine 
qualities  in  their  child.  They  saw  to  it 
that  her  body  was  well  dressed,  but  to  the 
inner  qualities  of  the  girl — heart,  mind, 
and  soul — they  devoted  no  such  efforts. 
She  ruled  them,  and  they  obeyed  her,  and 
thought  that  they  had  done  their  whole 
duty  by  loving  her  passionately.  For  her 
they  saved,  for  her  the  father  risked  those 
savings,  and  on  her  he  poured  out  the  prof- 
its of  his  venture.  Giving  everything  and 
requiring  nothing,  the  Downs  did  all  in 
their  power  to  ruin  the  girl,  absolutely 
convinced  meanwhile  that  they  were  being 
model  parents.  Had  anyone  told  them 


76  THE  BAWLEROUT 

that  they  were  criminals,  they  would  have 
been  outraged.  By  every  effort  in  their 
power  making  her  attractive  for  a  man  to 
take,  they  never  thought  of  making  her 
anything  that  a  man  could  keep.  A  typ- 
ical American  training  had  the  pretty  Miss 
Downs. 

The  pretty  Miss,  Downs  looked  up  at  the 
opening  of  the  door,  then  the  frown  van- 
ished from  her  eyebrows,  her  face  grew 
suddenly  soft  and  very  winsome. 

"Hello,  Father!"  The  girl  sprang  up. 
' '  Mother  told  me  to  stop  by  and  ask  you — 
Why,  Mrs.  Allen,  how  do  you  do  I "  she  ex- 
claimed, at  the  sight  of  the  little  figure  in 
black  which  followed  her  father  into  the 
visiting  room. 

"Edith,  dear,  how  pretty  you  look!" 
The  little  old  lady  kissed  the  girl.  The 
mother  of  Dick  Allen  looked  very  much 
older  than  on  the  day  when  she  had  spoken 
of  her  son  to  Miss  Sullivan.  Her  eyes, 
like  his,  were  tired  and  anxious  now,  her 
hands  more  tremulous.  Dick  Allen's 
mother  had  lost  the  look  of  peace  and 


THE  BAWLEROUT  77 

pride  which  she  had  worn  that  summer 
day.  Charker  and  his  brothers  are  quite 
expert  in  the  remodeling  of  the  human 
face. 

"Edith,  child,"  she  said,  holding  the 
girl's  hand  in  hers,  "I  want  to  speak  to 
your  father  for  just  a  moment  on  private 
business.  Do  you  mind?" 

"Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Allen,"  said  the  girl 
cheerily.  "I'll  just  look  out  of  the  window 
while  you  are  doing  it.  What  a  cold  day 
it  is,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  very  cold,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"And  so  slippery.  You  must  let  me 
put  you  on  the  car  when  you  go.  You 
should  not  be  out  on  such  a  day." 

"I  would  not  have  come  but  that  I 
wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  your  father.  I 
knew  that  he  could  give  me  a  few  min- 
utes after  three  o'clock." 

"Yes,  Elvira,  as  many  as  you  want," 
said  the  cashier.  "Sit  down,  Elvira." 

The  girl  went  to  a  window  at  the  far  side 
of  the  room,  and  the  two  old  friends  seated 
themselves  at  the  table. 


78  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"Daniel,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  tell 
me  something,  as  my  old  friend." 

"What  is  it,  Elvira?" 

"It  is  about  Dick,"  anxiously.  "Are 
things  going  well  here?  Is  there  any 
cause  for  dissatisfaction  with  him?" 

"No,  Elvira,  certainly  not.     Why?" 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  then: 
"Nothing — I — I  just  wondered.  Does  he 
look  well  to  you,  Daniel  ? ' ' 

"I  haven't  noticed  anything,  Elvira. 
What  is  there  to  worry  the  boy?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  has  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was.  But  he  has  not  told  me. 
And  I  make  it  a  point  not  to  worry  him 
by  asking.  Perhaps  it  is  nothing.  Per- 
haps— "  She  looked  at  the  girl  standing 
in  the  window.  The  slender  figure  in  the 
handsome  clothes  showed  against  the  cold 
light  from  the  icy  streets.  "There  has 
been  no  quarrel  between  Edith  and  Dick, 
has  there?" 

His  eyes  followed  hers.  The  old  face 
softened,  and  the  human  love  of  it  showed 
through  the  clerk's  mask. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  79 

"No,  indeed,  Elvira.  If  there  had  been, 
it  would  be  nothing.  Young  people  always 
will  have  quarrels,  but  they  blow  over. 
Dick  is  a  good  boy.  I  am  glad  to  think 
that  she  loves  such  a  man  as  Dick.  He 
would  stand  by  her  always- — no  matter 
what  happened."  His  gray  face  seemed 
to  become  grayer.  In  the  old  eyes  showed 
something  which  made  them  for  the  mo- 
ment look  kin  to  the  eyes  that  Charker  had 
put  into  Dick  Allen's  face. 

"You  mean  when  we  are  both  dead?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  death,"  said  the 
cashier.  He  turned  his  eyes  from  the  girl 
and  looked  down  at  the  table.  His 
wrinkled  hands  began  to  pluck  at  some  de- 
posit slips  on  it. 

' '  Sometimes  I  am  sorry  that  your  specu- 
lation succeeded,  Daniel." 

"Why?" 

"Because  before  you  made  your  money 
the  young  people  would  have  been  content 
to  go  on,  after  they  had  married,  in  the 
simple  way  that  they  had  been  accustomed 
to.  But  now  it  will  be  hard  on  Edith  to 


80  THE  BAWLEROUT 

marry  a  poor  man.  She  will  miss  her 
pretty  clothes  and  the  other  things  which 
you  have  been  able  to  give  her.  She  is 
young  and  she  likes  pretty  things.  She 
will  find  it  hard  at  first,  poor  child." 

"But  if  she  loves  Dick,  she  won't  mind." 

"No,"  the  little  old  lady  said  quietly, 
"if  she  loves  him  she  won't  mind."  But 
she  looked  at  the  girl  in  the  window  very 
long  after  she  had  said  it. 

"Yes,"  he  slowly  replied,  "she  does 
love  the  pretty  things,  and  it  would  be 
hard  for  her  to  do  without  them.  But  she 
would  learn  in  time — in  case — in  case  she 
had  to  do  without  them.  And  he  is  a  good 
fellow — and  would  stand  by  her.  You 
know,  Elvira,  it  runs  in  your  family  to 
stand  by  when  there  is  trouble.  Look  at 
the  way  you  stood  by  your  husband. ' ' 

"If  people  stand  up  with  each  other  be- 
fore the  altar,  they  had  better  stand  by 
each  other  afterwards,  Daniel.  But  stand- 
ing together  is  so  easy  when  people  love 
each  other.  Why,"  she  smiled,  "that  is 
the  only  way  they  want  to  stand,"  again 


THE  BAWLEROUT  81 

she  glanced  at  the  girl,  "if  they  love  each 
other."  The  smile  faded  and  she  looked 
at  the  girl  intently. 

"Why,  Mother,  what  are  you  doing 
here?"  exclaimed  young  Allen  from  the 
doorway. 

"I  just  wanted  to  see  Daniel  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  am  going,  now. ' '  She  rose  and 
pulled  together  the  edges  of  her  ancient 
fur  tippet. 

"Wait  just  a  moment,  Mrs.  Allen,  and 
I  will  put  you  on  the  car. ' '  The  girl  came 
from  the  window.  ' '  Can  you  see  me  now, 
Dick  ? ' '  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"I've  just  got  to  step  into  the  book- 
keepers' department  for  a  minute,  and 
then  I  won't  be  five  seconds  more  with  the 
president." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you — I  must.  I've 
planned  something,  and  the  girls  want  to 
know  this  afternoon  if  you  are  coming." 

"Wait  five  minutes  more,  dear.  The  old 
man  is  simply  raging.  I  don't  dare  offend 
him  again." 

She  turned  away  in  displeasure. 


82  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

"Won't  you  wait,  Edith?" 

No  answer. 

' l  Aw,  go  on,  wait. ' ' 

No  answer. 

With  a  sudden  expression  of  wrath,  Dick 
Allen  left  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Allen,  are  you  ready?"  The  girl 
caught  her  muff  up  from  the  table,  and 
glanced  at  the  door. 

"Yes,  dear.     Good-by,  Daniel." 

"Good-by,  Elvira." 

The  girl  and  the  old  woman  walked  to 
the  door,  which  the  old  cashier  opened  for 
them. 

"Father,  Mother  told  me  to  tell  you — " 

"Why  don't  you  pay  your  honest 
debts?"  cried  a  voice  that  rang  against 
the  walls.  "Call  yourself  an  honest  man, 
do  you?  Then  why  don't  you  pay  your 
debts?" 

The  voice  struck  into  silence  the  rattling 
of  coins  and  the  calling  of  the  bookkeep- 
ers. A  deep  hush  came  over  the  bank.  In 
the  doorway  of  the  visitors'  room  the  lit- 
tle group  stood  stricken  also,  peering  out, 


THE  BAWLEROUT  83 

trying  to  see  to  whom  it  was  that  the  words 
were  addressed. 

' '  I  won 't  be  quiet, ' '  cried  the  voice,  high 
and  clear.  "You  pay  what  you  owe. 
You  're  a  fine  man  to  work  in  a  bank ! ' ' 

Without  a  word,  the  mother  suddenly 
ran  from  the  doorway  out  toward  the 
clamoring  voice.  The  girl  turned  to  her 
father. 

"That  woman  is  talking  to  Dick,"  she 
cried. 

"Mr.  Downs,  what  is  that  noise?"  said 
the  icy  voice  of  the  president,  as  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  inner  office. 

"I— I—" 

"I  won't  be  quiet  about  an  honest  debt." 

"What  is  that  noise,  Mr.  Downs!" 

"A  woman  is  talking  to  young  Allen, 
Mr.  Bendis." 

"This  is  a  scandal.  The  bank  has  the 
right  to  know  what  this  means.  Bring 
Allen  and  that  woman  in  here.  Go  at  once 
and  do  as  I  say. ' ' 

The  cashier  hurriedly  obeyed  him.  The 
president  walked  to  the  center  table  and 


84 

stood  there,  a  picture  of  conservative  jus- 
tice with  any  number  of  swords  and  no 
bandage. 

"Mr.  Bendis,"  said  the  girl.  Then,  ter- 
rified, she  shrank  back  from  the  door. 

Ashen,  quiet,  and  sullen,  young  Allen 
entered.  With  bowed  shoulders  and  eyes 
on  the  floor,  hands  thrust  into  empty  pock- 
ets, he  stood  before  the  president  and 
judge.  A  crack  in  his  shoe  seemed  to  en- 
gross his  attention. 

Head  up,  eyes  as  bright  and  hard  as  blue 
steel,  militant,  relentless,  unabashed,  the 
bawlerout  followed  him  and  fronted  the 
president,  every  line  of  her  figure,  every 
hair  in  her  furs,  defying  the  earth  and  the 
fullness  thereof  in  the  cause  of  Charker. 

The  old  cashier  fluttered  and  tremu- 
lously dry-washed  his  hands  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  doorway.  From  his  fright- 
ened glances  at  the  majestic  president,  he 
might  have  been  the  victim  of  the  scene. 
Over  his  shoulders  peered  the  awed  and 
curious  faces,  green-shaded,  of  bank  em- 
ployes. The  towering  gray  figure  of 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  85 

Ryan,  the  recently  discharged  watchman, 
might  be  observed  among  the  green  shades. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

"Now,"  said  the  president.  He  paused 
to  observe  a  small  black  figure  which  had 
been  submerged  in  the  sudden  influx  of 
the  entrance  of  the  bawlerout  and  the  at- 
tendant train.  The  little  black  figure  now 
emerged  and  stood  beside  the  lad  with  the 
bowed  head.  An  old,  rheumatism-dis- 
torted hand  went  out  and  touched  his  arm 
in  the  shabby  blue  sleeve.  There  it  rested. 
The  shabby  lad  with  the  downcast  eyes, 
and  the  shabby  little  mother  whose  eyes 
looked  wistfully  into  the  judge's  face, 
waited  together  for  what  the  outraged  dig- 
nity of  the  bank  should  demand  as  venge- 
ance. 

"Mrs.  Allen,"  said  the  judge,  "I  am 
sorry  that  you  are  here.  May  I  suggest 
that  you  withdraw?" 

"I  will  stay,  please,"  said  the  little  old 
lady.  Her  fingers  gently  pressed  her 
boy's  arm  to  show  him  that  whatever  came 
to  him,  or  went  from  him,  there  was 


86  THE  BAWLEROUT 

one  friend  who  would  stay  by  him  always. 

"You  must  excuse  me  if  I  seem  hard, 
Mrs.  Allen,  but  my  duty  to  the  bank  forces 
me  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  this  and  ask  this 
woman  if  your  son  owes  her  money. ' ' 

A  sharp  exclamation  came  from  the  girl, 
who  had  shrunk  back  against  the  wall  and 
who  was  watching  the  other  girl  who  stood 
so  fearlessly  and  contemptuously  facing 
the  president.  There  was  a  note  in  that 
ejaculation  which  made  Dick  Allen  raise 
his  head  and  look  at  his  fiancee.  He  saw 
a  hard  question  in  her  eyes,*  smiled  with 
tired  cynicism,  and  looked  down  again  at 
the  crack  in  his  shoe.  Before  Charker 
took  him  in  hand,  he  would  have  faced  any 
situation  with  a  high  head;  but  he  had 
gone  through  too  much  begging  for  mercy 
in  Charker 's  dim  office,  had  been  forced 
to  make  too  many  appeals,  for  a  little  pity, 
to  hold  his  head  high  any  more.  Charker 
and  his  kind  are  wonderful  when  it  comes 
to  lowering  a  high  head. 

"Madam,"  said  the  president,  "does 
this  man  owe  you  money?" 


THE  BAWLEROUT  87 

The  bawlerout  looked  at  him.  For  the 
moment  she  had  been  looking  at  the  old 
hands  on  the  lad 's  shabby  coat  sleeve.  For 
a  half  second  more  she  hesitated.  Then 
with  sudden  resolution  she  smiled  gayly 
into  the  president's  face. 

"Owe  me  money?  Why,  how  did  you 
get  that  idea  in  your  head!"  said  Miss 
Sullivan  in  astonishment. 

The  president  turned  from  her  as  if  she 
had  been  a  depositor  whose  balance  was 
too  small  to  carry. 

"Allen,  answer  me  on  your  honor.  Do 
you  owe  this  woman  money  1 ' ' 

Everyone  was  very  quiet  as  the  boy 
looked  up  and  moistened  his  dry  lips  to 
speak. 

"He  don't  owe  me  a  cent,"  said  Miss 
Sullivan  loudly. 

The  lad  jerked  his  head  about  and  looked 
at  her,  stunned  surprise  in  his  eyes. 

"Madam,"  the  president's  voice  was 
conservatively  angry,  "that  is  not  true." 

"Who  are  you  calling  a  liar?"  The 
eyes  of  the  bawlerout  were  as  blue  ice, 


88  THE  BAWLEROUT 

her  voice  as  the  silver  trumpets  before 
Jericho.  "He  don't  owe  me  a  cent,  not 
one  red  cent.  But  say,  since  you  are  so 
anxious  to  know  who  I  did  come  after,  to 
try  and  make  him  pay  his  honest  debts, 
I'll  tell  you — that  is,  if  you  are  sure  you 
want  to  know." 

"I  certainly  do." 

"Ah,  now,  Mr.  Bendis,"  the  voice  was 
all  of  a  sudden  soft,  and  with  a  little 
wheedling  note  in  it  which  probably  had 
come  over  long  ago  on  the  tongue  of 
some  ancestor  of  the  bawlerout  from  the 
Emerald  Isle  of  blarney,  "I'm  afraid  if 
I  tell  you,  you  will  discharge  the  poor 
man. ' ' 

*  *  I  certainly  will. ' ' 

"Then,"  again  the  silver  trumpets  rang 
through  the  bank,  "fire  yourself,  because 
it's  you  I'm  after." 

The  president  gave  a  start  that  was  not 
at  all  conservative.  He  cried  out  in 
anger,  but  the  cry  was  lost  in  the  shower 
of  words  which  beat  upon  him  and  drowned 
his  voice. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  89 

"Yes,  it's  you.  The  whole  town  knows 
that  you  never  will  pay  an  honest  debt  if 
you  can  help  it,  not  even  to  save  it  from 
dying  of  old  age.  You  let  your  bills  run 
until  the  legs  are  worn  off  of  'em.  Many 
is  the  story  I  have  heard  of  poor  trades- 
men you  have  half  ruined  because  you 
won't  be  bothered  by  making  small  checks. 
You  think  that  you  can  do  what  you  please 
because  you  are  rich  and  everybody  knows 
that  you  have  the  money  to  pay  if  you  want 
to.  You  hate  to  give  up  money  to  pay 
your  honest  debts  and  everybody  knows  it, 
and  everybody  is  afraid  to  say  anything 
to  you  because  they  are  afraid  of  you. 
Well,  here's  somebody  who  ain't  afraid  of 
you,  and  I  tell  you  to  your  face  you're 
nothing  but  a  respectable  old  skin.  You 
had  better  quit  passing  the  plate  on  Sun- 
days and  pass  out  some  money  for  your 
creditors  to  live  on." 

There  is  a  rumor  that  here  the  president 
said,  "Put  that  woman  out."  But  that  is 
merely  a  rumor,  because  nobody  could  be 
heard  but  the  bawlerout. 


90  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"Yes,  put  me  out.  But  after  this  don't 
ever  say  that  nobody  has  cared  enough 
about  your  immortal  soul  to  speak  up  for 
your  own  good,  to  your  own  face.  It  came 
over  me  to  do  you  this  kindness  as  I  was 
passing  your  bank.  Now  I've  done  it. 
Don't  blame  me  for  talking  up  to  you. 
Blame  yourself  for  hugging  a  penny  till 
the  Indian  blushes  for  very  shame.  And 
you  should  blush  for  yourself  for  stepping 
on  the  poor  people  who  can't  stand  up  to 
you. ' ' 

Even  a  bawlerout  has  to  take  a  breath. 
Miss  Sullivan  took  one. 

"Ryan,"  called  the  shaking  president 
to  the  gray  bulk  among  the  green  shades, 
"put  that  woman  out." 

"I  can't.  I  ain't  the  watchman  now. 
I'm  fired,"  came  a  joyous  voice. 

"I  am  going,"  cried  Miss  Sullivan,  "but 
I  want  to  tell  you  this  first.  You  never 
can  get  to  Heaven,  but  if  you  pay  your 
honest  debts  they  may  let  you  peek  through 
the  gate.  There!"  she  turned  to  the 
shabby  lad,  "you  would  try  to  keep  me 


THE  BAWLEROUT  91 

away  from  him,  but  I  told  you  I  would  see 
him,  and  I  guess  I  have." 

"Put  her  out,"  quavered  the  president; 
"I  have  to  attend  to  some  business  now," 
and  he  hurried  from  the  room  and  locked 
his  door.  For  a  thin  man,  Ms  exit  was 
most  astonishingly  like  that  of  the  fat  Mr. 
Sleen. 

The  groups  shifted  uneasily.  The  opin- 
ion was  generally  expressed  by  at  least 
twenty  men  that  the  police  should  be  sent 
for.  Miss  Sullivan  adjusted  her  furs, 
pulled  up  a  glove,  ran  her  hand  over  her 
back  hair,  and  prepared  for  departure. 
Seeing  this,  every  face  vanished  from  the 
doorway.  Suddenly  a  hand  lay  on  her 
arm. 

"Won't  you  come  and  see  me?  I  want 
your  help,"  said  the  mother,  very  low. 
Miss  Sullivan  cleared  her  throat,  then 
nodded  and  hastened  for  the  door.  Then 
she  paused.  The  lad  she  had  saved  was 
before  her,  trying  to  force  his  trembling 
lips  into  some  word  of  thanks.  But  Chark- 
er's  had  had  him  too  long  for  his  self- 


92  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

control.  The  muscle  at  the  side  of  his 
mouth  twitched,  but  the  lips  said  nothing. 
Miss  Sullivan  surveyed  him  with  deep  con- 
tempt. 

' '  Don 't  think  I  did  it  for  you, ' '  she  said 
with  suppressed  violence.  "It  was  that 
mother  of  yours.  Get  out  of  my  way.  I 
never  did  have  any  use  for  men." 


V 

4  4T  II  THAT  a  terrible— what  a  vulgar 
V  V  woman ! ' '  said  Edith,  looking  at 
the  door  through  which  Miss  Sullivan 
had  just  made  her  departure.  Allen, 
watching  from  the  doorway  the  lithe  figure 
sweeping  out  through  the  bank,  did  not 
hear.  Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  the  fact 
that  someone  had  caught  his  arm.  Then 
soft  lips  pressed  his  cheek. 

"Oh,  Dick,  I'm  so  glad.  I  thought  that 
you  had  done  something  dreadful,"  said 
the  girl  excitedly.  "But  I  knew  that  you 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  a  bold- 
faced thing  like  that. ' ' 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about."  He  jerked  his  arm  from  her 
touch.  "That  is  a  good  girl." 

"Girl!"  The  soft  eyes  lit  angrily. 
"She  is  not  a  girl,  she  is  a  woman." 

"Never  mind,  girl  or  woman,  she  is  all 
right." 

93 


94  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

"Mrs.  Allen,  are  you  ready  to  go?"  said 
Miss  Downs. 

Mrs.  Allen  was  ready  to  go.  Her  son 
could  not  look  at  her  as  he  opened  the 
door  for  their  departure,  but  she  looked 
at  him,  and  when  she  had  followed  Miss 
Downs  through  the  door,  she  turned  back 
and  kissed  him  very  softly,  then  without  a 
word  went  away. 

He  shut  the  door.  Going  to  the  table, 
he  sank  weakly  into  a  chair  and  put  his 
head  on  his  hands. 

"What  is  the  use?"  thought  the  boy, 
"I  never  can  get  out  of  this.  As  long  as 
I  can  keep  a  place  I  will  be  a  slave  to 
Charker. ' ' 

"Dick,"  said  the  old  cashier,  "that 
woman  did  come  for  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Allen  through  his  hands, 
"from  Charker 's,  the  loan  sharks.  They 
have  got  me.  Mr.  Downs,"  he  put  down 
his  hands,  "I  have  no  right  to  be  engaged 
to  your  daughter.  I  never  will  get  out  of 
debt  to  these  people.  I — you  had  better 
tell  Edith." 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  95 

' '  How  much  do  you  owe  1 ' ' 

"It's  not  that.  But  the  more  I  pay,  the 
bigger  the  debt." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

"More  than  I  can  pay,  or  borrow." 

"How  do  you  know  that  you  can't  bor- 
row it?" 

"Because  there  is  nobody  who  would 
lend  me  the  money." 

"I  will  lend  you  the  money,"  said  the 
cashier. 

Allen  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"But  you  said  that  all  your  money  was 
tied  up  in  the  loan  company.  I  heard 
you  say  that  to  Mrs.  Downs  night  be- 
fore last." 

"I  can  lend  you  the  money,"  said  the 
cashier,  arranging  the  deposit  slips  on  the 
table. 

"But,  Mr.  Downs—" 

"Dick,  my  girl  loves  you.  I  want  you 
to  marry  her  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  want 
somebody  to  stand  by  her — she  is  so  young. 
You  are  a  good  boy.  I  want  you  to  take 
care  of  her.  I  will  lend  you  the  money. 


96  THE  BAWLEROUT 

I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  all  I  can  give  her 
for  a  wedding  present  just  now.  Call  it 
that — a  wedding  present. ' ' 

"But,  Mr.  Downs,  the  president  has  re- 
fused to  raise  my  salary.  We  will  have 
to  wait  a  little." 

"I  know,"  said  the  old  man  quietly, 
"but  I  am  going  to  retire  soon — and  then 
you  will  have  my  place.  You  will  take 
care  of  her,  Dick,  I  know. ' ' 

"Are  you  thinking  of  retiring,  sir?" 

"Yes."  The  deposit  slips  were  now  all 
neatly  piled  together.  The  old  man 
looked  out  into  the  icy  street.  "It  may 
come  any  day.  I  am  too  old  for  business." 

The  lad  grasped  his  hand. 

"You!ve  saved  me,  sir — and  I  will  never 
forget  it.  I  never  can  pay  you  for  this." 


VI 


THROUGH  the  hard  sunshine  and  the 
biting  cold  of  the  next  morning,  the 
bawlerout  strode  down  toward  the  build- 
ing which  had  the  honor   of  holding  in 
its  bosom  Charker  and  Company. 

Miss  Sullivan  could  walk.  Few  women 
walk.  Some  glide,  most  waddle  or  hitch. 
Miss  Sullivan  walked.  There  was  no  vul- 
gar swaying  of  the  hips,  no  boneless  swing- 
ing of  the  arms.  The  long,  free  stride 
suggested  strong,  slender,  limber  muscles. 
The  slight  movement  of  the  shoulders 
showed  perfect  balance  and  graceful  yield- 
ing of  all  the  body  to  the  motion  of  the 
feet.  The  quiet,  well-cut  suit  of  dark 
brown,  the  simple  brown  furs,  and  the 
small  hat  touched  with  fur — all  these, 
combined  with  the  bright  blue  eyes  and  the 
fresh  color  in  the  smooth  cheeks,  made  a 
picture  of  a  young  lady  on  her  way  to 
business  and  dressed  for  the  part  most 

97 


98  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

pleasingly  to  masculine  gazers,  who  fre- 
quently turned  to  observe  the  progress  of 
Miss  Sullivan. 

"Charker's  bawlerout,"  said  a  man  in  a 
hotel  window.  "She  should  interest  you, 
Brice." 

"She  does."  The  man  addressed  as 
Brice  leaned  forward  to  watch  the  figure 
of  the  girl.  "Very  much." 

"Well,  Don  Quixote,"  laughed  the  other, 
"what  does  your  psychology  tell  you  she 
is?" 

"A  healthy  animal,"  said  Brice,  smil- 
ing. 

"And  a  brave  one,"  said  the  other 
with  contemptuous  toleration  of  that 
good  quality  in  a  woman  like  the  bawler- 
out. "They  tell  of  her  going  into  Red 
February's  dive  after  a  loan  his  bar- 
keeper .owed  Charker.  Red  February  was 
there  with  his  man,  and  the  man  locked 
the  door  on  her.  She  told  them  to  open  it. 
They  laughed  at  her ;  said  they  had  got  her 
now. ' ' 

"Well,  what  happened  in  Red  Febru- 
ary's?" 


THE  BAWLEROUT  yy 

did  not  scream  nor  say  a  word, 
just  took  the  big  cut-glass  punch  bowl, 
which  is  the  pride  of  Bed  February's 
life,  up  off  the  bar,  and  told  him  if  he 
didn't  unlock  the  door  she  would  break  the 
punch  bowl  over  his,  Red's,  head.  The 
bowl  was  presented  to  Red  when  he  was 
elected  police  justice.  He  unlocked  the 
door  himself.  Then  she  walked  out  with 
it  in  her  arms.  If  he  had  grappled  with 
her  the  bowl  would  have  gone  smashing. 
When  she  got  out  she  told  Red  to  hand 
over  the  money  she  came  for  or  she  would 
bounce  the  bowl  on  the  sidewalk.  He 
handed  it  over. ' ' 

Brice  laughed.  He  was  a  quietly 
dressed,  middle-aged  man,  and  very  seri- 
ous looking,  except  when  he  laughed.  The 
laugh  generally  took  about  ten  years  from 
his  age  for  about  ten  seconds. 

"By  the  way,"  said  his  companion,  also 
a  middle-aged  man,  with  business  clothes 
and  a  pleasant  face,  "how  long  am  I  to  be 
forced  to  employ  you  I" 

"As  long  as  I  want  you  to.  You  see, 
I  am  in  great  difficulty  just  now,  and  I 


100  THE  BAWLEROUT 

have  just  applied  to  Charker  for  a  loan." 

The  man  with  the  pleasant  face  and  busi- 
ness clothes  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"All  right,  Brice.  I  shall  have  to  stand 
it,  I  suppose."  Then  he  laughed  again. 
"How  long,  0  Lord,  how  long?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  Well,  good-by.  I 
must  follow  the  young  lady  to  Charker 's 
and  see  if  I  am  sufficiently  to  be  trusted 
to  borrow  one  hundred  dollars." 

Whereat  his  friend  chuckled  again  and 
waved  him  an  adieu. 

When  Miss  Sullivan  opened  the  ground- 
glass  door  of  many  shadows  and  entered 
the  dim  little  office  she  found  no  clients  on 
the  chairs  of  little-ease.  This  was  not  sur- 
prising, as  it  was  yet  early.  Mrs.  Froder 
of  the  peroxide  puffs  was  engaged  in  pow- 
dering her  face,  and  looked  very  much  like 
a  large  yellow  cat  at  its  morning  toilet. 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Froder,"  said 
Miss  Sullivan. 

The  powder  puff  fell  to  the  floor.  Mrs. 
Froder  ceased  to  look  like  a  large  cat  and 
now  resembled  a  small  mouse  being  kept 


THE,  BAWLEEOUT  101 

from  its  family  circle  by  a  flirtation  with 
a  kitten. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Sullivan,"  said 
Mrs.  Froder. 

A  fresh  whiff  of  cold  air  entered  with 
Miss  Sullivan  and  routed  for  the  moment 
the  layers  of  heavy  perfume  which  sur- 
rounded Mrs.  Froder.  Mrs.  Froder  gen- 
erally smelled  like  a  Persian  garden  which 
has  suddenly  become  violent. 

"What  are  the  assignments  to-day, 
Mrs.  Froder?" 

Mrs.  Froder  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak,  closed  it  again,  and  made  a  mental 
prayer. 

"I  did  not  collect  from  Allen  yester- 
day," continued  the  girl,  stripping  off  her 
gloves  and  rolling  them  into  a  ball.  What 
is  the  feminine  reason  for  rolling  gloves 
into  a  tight  ball?  "But  I  was  at  his 
house  last  night.  He  is  coming  in  to-day 
to  settle  all — principal  and  interest.  I 
told  him  you  would  soak  him  for  protest 
fees  and  all  that.  But  he  is  going  to  pay. 
What  assignments  are  there  for  me?" 


102  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

"Miss  Sullivan,"  cried  the  lady,  who 
now  looked  like  a  blonde  mouse,  "I  don't 
know  nothin'  about  it."  She  nervously 
pressed  down  the  front  of  her  tight  and 
bulging  corsets  and  hurried  on  desper- 
ately, "I  can't  understand  it  at  all." 

"Understand  what?  His  paying  and 
getting  away  from  Charker?  Neither 
do  I." 

"You'll  understand,  Miss  Sullivan,  that 
I  am  just  a  poor  working  lady  that  has  to 
sit  at  this  desk  and  take  lip  for  the  firm 
whether  I  like  it  or  not.  The  cussin's  out 
I  have  had  at  this  very1  desk  wouldn't  have 
been  believed  was  possible  to  a  human 
tongue  by  me,  and  Froder  could  go  some 
at  that.  If  Froder  hadn't  took  to  drink, 
I  would  be  settin'  now  on  them  pieces  of 
furniture  which  was  our  Loouie  Catz  set 
and  a  turnin'  up  my  nose  at  everybody. 
But  owin'  to  liquor,  I  have  to  set  here  and 
be  cussed  out  in  a  way  that  would  make  my 
mother  throw  a  fit  in  Heaven,  if  she  could 
hear  it,  though  I  will  say  that  the  minnit 
she  see  Froder  she  said  he  had  a  drinkin' 
eye. ' ' 


THE  BAWLEKOUT  103 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Froder?" 

"Mr.  Sleen  ain't  been  here  to-day, 
Miss  Sullivan,  and  he  ain't  comin',  Miss 
Sullivan,  until  I  tell  him  over  the  tele- 
phone that  you  have  went.  There  is  men 
all  over  for  you.  Many's  the  time  Froder 
has  went  into  the  closet  when  he  thought 
it  was  the  agent  that  was  knockin'." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Froder?" 
said  the  perplexed  Miss  Sullivan.  "Why 
isn't  Mr.  Sleen  coming  to-day  until  I  go?" 

"Please  don't  rough-house  the  joint, 
Miss  Sullivan,"  said  the  victim  of  liquor, 
' '  but — he  told  me  to  tell  you  that  you  were 
fired."  The  widow  hastily  gathered  her 
skirts  about  her  and  half  rose,  prepared 
to  run.  "He  said  to  tell  you  he  hadn't 
nothin'  to  do  with  it,  that  the  orders  was 
from  Charker  himself.  He  said  to  tell  you 
that  he  wouldn't  be  in  to-day.  He  has 
went  on  business  to  Baltimore,  and  don't 
blame  me  for  what  I  have  to  do,  all  through 
havin'  a  husband  that  would  take  the  bot- 
tle to  bed  with  him,  though  he  was  told  a 
thousand  times  that  no  married  lady  of 
ree-finement  would  stand  for  gettin'  in  bed 


104  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

with  a  whisky  bottle—  The  widow 
gasped  fearfully  for  breath. 

Miss  Sullivan's  fine  white  teeth  showed 
in  a  hearty  laugh. 

" Don't  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Froder.  I 
won't  eat  you.  And  tell  Mr.  Sleen  that 
he  has  my  full  permission  to  come  back 
to  the  job."  A  second  gay  laugh  echoed 
in  the  dingy  room.  "There!"  she  threw 
a  key  on  the  table ;  ' '  that  is  the  key  of  my 
desk.  I  suppose  the  back  office  is  locked  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  Mr.  Sleen  has  the  key  to  it." 

"No  matter.  I  present  him  with  the 
crochet  needles  to  remember  me  by. 
Where  is  my  money?" 

Much  relieved,  the  peroxide  one  gave  her 
some  bills. 

"Well,"  with  a  vast  sigh  of  relief,  "I 
must  say  you  act  like  a  lady." 

"I  may  act  like  one,  but  I  am  not  one, 
and  never  was,"  the  girl  replied,  as  she 
counted  the  bills. 

"That  money  is  all  right,  Miss  Sullivan. 
Mr.  Sleen  counted  it  over  twice  and  then 
came  back  to  count  it  again. ' ' 


THE  BAWLEKOUT  105 

"So  it  is,"  stuffing  it  in  her  muff. 
"Well,  good-by." 

"Good-by,  Miss  Sullivan.  I  wish  you 
all  luck,  and  if  you  should  ever  think  of 
marryin '  a  man,  be  sure  to  see  if  he  smells 
his  whisky  before  takin'  it  off.  Believe  me, 
there  ain't  never  no  happiness  with  a  man 
who  tastes  his  liquor  first  with  his  nose." 

"I  will  remember.  Though,  if  I  ever 
think  of  taking  a  husband,  I  give  you  leave 
to  stick  a  knife  in  me.  It  may  hurt  more  at 
first,  but  it  is  likely  to  be  more  peaceful 
afterwards."  The  twinkle  died  from  the 
blue  eyes.  "Say,"  said  Miss  Sullivan 
thoughtfully,  "you  say  that  the  order  to 
fire  me  came  direct  from  Charker?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Sullivan,"  said  the  peroxide 
one,  showing  signs  of  returning  panic. 

"Um — I  wonder  why?  He  could  not 
have  known  about  my  not  collecting  from 
Allen,  because  I  did  not  come  back  to  re- 
port to  the  office.  It  is  funny  that  Charker 
should  get  a  grouch  on  me  so  suddenly. 
You  are  sure  it  is  not  Sleen?" 

"No,  Miss  Sullivan.    Mr.  Sleen  was  just 


106  THE  BAWLEROUT 

tellin'  me,  it  was  yesterday  afternoon 
about  half-past  three — I  remember  that, 
because  Timldns,  that  goes  to  work  at  four, 
had  just  been  in  to>  give  me  the  fifteen  dol- 
lars interest  on  that  forty  loan  of  his — 
and  Mr.  Sleen  was  just  sayin'  you  were 
the  best  bawlerout  in  town,  bein'  honest 
and  at  the  same  time  violent,  and  not 
graftin'  on  the  side,  when  he  was  called  to 
the  telephone.  He  cum  right  back  lookin' 
very  pale,  and  said  that  Charker  himself 
had  ordered  you  fired  at  once.  And  he  told 
me  to  fire  you,  and  then  he  grabbed  his  hat 
an'  ain't  been  back  since." 

"  Charker  himself.  I  have  never  seen 
him.  Have  you ! ' ' 

"No,  never — nor  nobody  else  but  Sleen. 
There  is  a  lot  of  people  in  this  town  that 
would  like  to  get  a  look  at  Charker.  I 
guess  he  knows  it,  too." 

"I  would  like  to  get  a  look  at  him,"  said 
Miss  Sullivan. 

"Why!" 

"Because  I  would  like  to  see  the  man 
that  can  profit  by  this  business." 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  107 

" That's  what  we  do,  don't  we?" 

"No,  we  live  by  it.  And  there  is  some 
difference  in  the  word.  You  don't  like  to 
sit  and  do  what  you  have  to  do,  do  you!" 

"Miss  Sullivan,  I  used  to  hate  it.  But 
I  am  the  widder  of  a  dead  man  that  drunk 
up  a  whole  set  of  Loouie  Catz  furniture  in 
one  week.  An'  a  woman  who  has  seen  her 
parlor  set  took  by  the  furniture  house  fer 
only  three  installments  missed,  ain't  got  a 
lot  of  feelin's  left  to  harry." 

"Well,  I  am  sick  of  the  job,  and  the  life. 
I  have  saved  some  money.  Now  I  shall 
look  around  for  a  job  that  I  can  hold  and 
still  dare  look  a  mirror  in  the  face. ' ' 

"Miss  Sullivan,"  exclaimed  the  widow, 
"you  act  so  strange  to-day.  Froder  used 
to  be  that  way  of  a  mornin'.  The  good 
resolutions  that  I  have  heard  of  a  morn- 
in' would  turn  your  blood  cold,  Miss  Sulli- 
van. One  of  'em  was  suicide  regular  as 
come  nine  o'clock.  But  I  am  surprised  at 
you.  I  never  heard  you  talk  that  way. ' ' 

"I  am  surprised  at  myself.  But  I  got 
a  good  look  at  myself  yesterday." 


108  THE  BAWLEROUT 

Mrs.  Froder  became  dazed.  "How?" 
she  asked. 

"By  looking  at  an  old  woman." 

Mrs.  Froder  became  more  dazed. 

' '  I  went  to  see  her  last  night — the  poor, 
brave  old  thing.  I  didn't  mean  to,  but  I 
went.  I  went  because  I  could  not  keep 
away.  The  poor,  lonely  old  thing — she 
made  me  feel — "  A  gesture  with  the 
shoulders  completed  the  sentence. 

"Did  she  bawl  you  out?"  asked  Mrs. 
Froder. 

' '  No — she  treated  me — like  a  mother.  I 
saw  her  two  years  ago  when  I  went  to  look 
up  young  Allen.  She  is  his  mother.  I  re- 
membered her  afterwards  for  a  long  time. 
Yesterday  she  was  in  the  bank  when  I  went 
to  bawl  him  out,  and  when  I  saw  her  stand- 
ing by  her  son,  I  just  couldn't  do  it.  I 
walked  out  of  the  place.  But  everywhere 
I  went  I  saw  faces — the  faces  of  the  moth- 
ers of  the  men  who  come  here — the  old 
women.  The  wives  I  don't  care  a  darn 
about.  They  took  a  chance  when  they 
married.  But  the  old  women,  the  moth- 


THE  BAWLEROUT  109 

ers,  who  have  it  bred  iix  'em  and  never  can 
get  away  from  loving  the  men  we  are  driv- 
ing to  ruin  and  prison — they  kept  looking 
at  me.  So  last  night  I  went  to  her  house 
to  say" — a  sweep  of  the  muff — "I  don't 
know  what  I  was  going  to  say.  God  knows 
when  Charker  gets  a  man  there  is  mighty 
little  use  saying  anything.  But  I — just 
didn't  want  her  to  think  I  was  rotten  all 
through.  And  she  treated  me  as  if  she 
knew  I  wasn't.  That  was  before  her  son 
came  home  and  told  her  that  he  was  free  of 
us,  that  somebody  was  going  to  give  him 
the  money  to  be.  Then  he  rushed  right  off 
to  tell  it  to  some  girl,  and  I  stayed  a  while. 

"It  was  like  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  girl, 
sitting  there  in  the  lamplight  with  her. 
You  see,  she  was  so  grateful  because  I 
hadn  't  bawled  him  out,  and  so  glad  that  she 
knew  at  last  what  had  been  the  matter  with 
her  boy — and  so  we  talked  and  talked,  she 
telling  me  about  him — not  that  I  cared  a 
darn  about  him — but  I  just  liked  to  sit 
there  and  look  at  her  and  remember  things 
long  ago,  sitting  like  that  with  my  own 


110  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

mother  by  a  lamp.  You  see,  I  just  live 
alone  in  that  boarding  house  of  mine  and 
— well — right  there  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
get  some  other  job  if  I  had  to  wring  some- 
body's neck." 

Neither  woman  heard  the  door  open  be- 
hind them,  so  absorbed  were  they  in  the  in- 
trospect and  retrospect  to  which  this  un- 
usual occasion  had  given  rise  and  for 
which  a  temporary  lull  in  the  day's  busi- 
ness had  afforded  opportunity.  In  the 
regular  course  of  that  business  these  two 
women  had  been  called  upon  to  bear  the 
hatred  and  abuse  intended  for  the  hidden 
Mr.  Charker.  Their  lives  were  one  hard, 
often  dangerous,  round  of  abuse,  threat, 
and  pleading  to  which  they  had  no  power 
to  respond,  recitals  of  suffering  which  they 
had  no  power  to  alleviate.  All  the  finer 
feelings  had  to  be  thrown  away  that  they 
might  make  their  bread.  They  could,  by 
doing  the  behest  of  Charker,  live  with  some 
decency,  have  some  of  the  things  for  which 
the  feminine  heart  is  hungry.  To  blame 
them  for  their  choice  is  easy,  to  suggest 


THE  BAWLEROUT  111 

what  else  they  might  do  and  still  have  the 
power  to  live  like  a  higher  animal,  is  not 
so  easy.  To  Charker  went  the  profit,  to 
these  women  the  danger  and  abuse.  Re- 
member, when  you  think  of  all  the  thou- 
sands of  women  behind  which  Charker  and 
his  brothers  hide,  that  there  are  easier 
ways  of  getting  a  livelihood  than  the  one 
which  they  have  chosen. 

"I  hope,  Miss  Sullivan,  that  you  can  get 
another  job.  This  life  ain't  one  long, 
sweet  dream  for  any  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Froder.  And  real  feeling  behind  the 
words  was  in  her  voice  and  in  the  eyes  no 
longer  cold  under  the  rolling  peroxide 
pompadour.  ; 

"Well,  good-by."  The  girl  shook  the 
woman's  hand. 

"Good-by,  my  dear.  Don't  you  never 
be  tempted  to  marry  a  drinkin'  man  to  re- 
form him  unless  you  are  certain  that  the 
first  souse  will  kill  him,  and  remember, 
when  a  man  tells  you  he  is  a  good  Indian, 
that  the  only  good  Indian  is  a  dead  one. ' ' 

* '  I  '11  never  marry.    I  had  a  father, ' '  said 


112  THE  BAWLEBOUT 

Miss  Sullivan,  and  her  shadow  flitted  for 
the  last  time  over  the  glass  of  Charker's 
door. 

Mrs.  Froder  sighed,  took  out  a  pocket 
handkerchief  of  sixty-cologne  power  and 
wiped  away  a  tear.  "When  you  once 
could  be  sure  that  she  would  not  break 
your  head,  that  girl  certainly  did  get  into 
your  heart,"  thought  Mrs.  Froder. 

' '  Excuse  me, ' '  said  the  man  who  had  en- 
tered unobserved  and  had  been  waiting 
during  the  departure  of  Miss  Sullivan.  He 
advanced  to  the  desk.  Mrs.  Froder  re- 
sumed the  look  of  a  large  yellow  cat  on  a 
full  diet  of  mice,  and  regarded  him  with 
her  coldest  glare. 

"Charker  won't  make  you  no  loan,"  said 
Mrs.  Froder  sharply. 

"But  why  not?    My  position  is  steady." 

"Well — we  ain't  sure  that  you  are  what 
you  seem,  Mr.  Brice.  And  we  ain't  goin' 
to  make  you  no  loan.  Good-by.  I'm 
busy." 

The  widow  of  the  convivial  Mr.  Froder 
turned  her  attention  to  other  business. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  113 

The  rejected  applicant  returned  to  the 
street. 

The  sunlight  was  very  bright  and  the 
cold  severe.  Mr.  Brice  buttoned  his  over- 
coat about  him  and  shivered.  "I  suppose 
I  might  just  as  well  put  on  my  fur  coat 
again,  now  that  I  did  not  get  that  loan. 
Also,  there  is  now  no  objection  to  my  hav- 
ing my  shoes  shined." 

He  descended  the  steps  of  a  little  boot- 
black parlor,  where  swarthy  Italians  were 
bending  at  the  foot  of  thrones  on  which, 
in  various  attitudes  of  strict  attention  to 
one  subject,  sat  a  number  of  men.  The 
subject  was  the  tall  girl  whom  he  had  last 
seen  in  Charker's  office.  Supremely  indif- 
ferent to  the  winks  of  an  old  gentleman 
with  a  white  carnation  in  his  buttonhole, 
and  the  grins  of  two  young  clerks  whose 
thin  white  necks  rose  from  their  wide- 
padded  shoulders  like  wan  lilies  in  pots 
too  large  for  them,  Miss  Sullivan  was  read- 
ing the  want  advertisements  in  a  paper  and 
having  her  neat  brown  walking  shoes  pol- 
ished. Presently,  as  he  watched,  Brice 


114  THE  BAWLEROUT 

saw  one  of  the  clerks  lean  from  his  chair 
and,  while  his  companion  grinned  devil- 
ishly, whisper  to  the  girl.  Without  rais- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  want  column,  the 
girl  gave  him  a  back-handed  slap  in  the 
face  which  re-echoed  through  the  shop, 
then  leisurely  she  turned  a  page.  Every 
grin  vanished.  The  old  gentleman  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  a  wink  and  got  a  paper. 
Quiet  descended  on  the  place.  Miss  Sulli- 
van continued  to  read. 

Presently  she  jumped  from  the  throne, 
looked  at  her  boots,  paid  for  the  polish,  and 
ran  up  the  steps  to  the  street. 

Brice  followed  her.  His  face  betrayed 
the  utmost  perplexity.  "I  need  that  girl. 
She  is  just  what  I  want.  But  'how  in  the 
devil  dare  a  man  who  doesn't  know  her 
speak  to  a  girl  like  that?" 

No  solution  came  to  aid  him.  But  he 
continued  to  follow  her. 


VII 

THE  morning  was  fine  and  bright. 
There  was  money  in  a  certain 
bank.  There  was  a  little  red  bank-book 
locked  away  in  her  trunk  at  home.  There 
was  no  pressing  need  to  look  for  work. 
Miss  Sullivan  decided  to  take  a  walk  for 
pleasure.  She  felt  a  sweeping  sense  of 
freedom  bearing  her  onward.  Usually 
when  she  walked  the  streets  of  that  town 
she  did  it  with  the  feeling  that  she  must 
bear  herself  so  that  those  streets  could  see 
that  at  the  least  sign  of  "Freshness"  she 
would  cheerfully  bawl  them  out.  But  to- 
day she  was  thinking  of  other  things,  how 
sweet  the  little  old  lady  had  been,  of  how 
much  Miss  Sullivan  detested  men,  par- 
ticularly the  little  old  lady's  son,  princi- 
pally for  being  the  son  of  the  little  old 
lady.  The  neatly  polished  brown  boots 
flashed  rhythmically  beneath  the  brown 
skirt  which  had  room  enough  in  it  for  the 
free  play  of  the  strong,  lithe  limbs. 

115 


116  THE  BAWLEBOUT 

What  did  that  man  mean  by  getting  into 
the  clutch  of  Charkers  and  bringing  all  that 
trouble  on  his  little  mother?  Who  was 
that  girl  who  had  been  in  the  reception 
room  at  the  bank?  Who  was  the  girl  he 
had  run  off  last  night  to  tell  that  he  was 
free  of  Charkers?  That  girl  in  the  bank 
was  very  pretty.  She  looked  just  like  a 
girl  should  look — feminine. 

Miss  Sullivan  began  to  watch  the  girls 
who  passed  her.  It  was  getting  near  the 
school  hour  and  there  were  groups  of 
them,  little  girls  with  the  absurd  little 
solemn  airs  with  which  little  girls  go  to- 
wards school,  young  misses  with  laughter 
on  fresh  lips  and  the  first  touch  of  com- 
ing womanhood  giving  a  new  sparkle  to 
clear  eyes,  eyes  kept  clear  and  fresh  and 
sweet  behind  the  guarding  bars  of  safe 
homes — from  first  to  last  they  all  were 
so  feminine.  Miss  Sullivan's  eyes  which 
for  all  their  limpid  clearness  had  seen  so 
much  of  a  man's  world  grew  somber. 
She  looked  down,  and  the  flash  of  the  newly 
polished  but  masculine  boots  brought  a 


THE  BAWLEROUT  117 

frown  to  her  face.  Mechanically  she 
turned  her  back  on  the  floods  of  girlhood 
flowing  through  the  bright  sunshine  to- 
wards the  big  brick  school. 

To  her  disgust  even  the  window  was 
feminine. 

Against  a  background  of  delicate  green, 
tall  white  wands  lifted  dainty  hats  all 
flushed  with  spring  colors.  An  armful  of 
the  most  feminine  looking  apple  blossoms 
Miss  Sullivan  had  ever  seen  lay  on  the 
green  rug  covering  the  floor  of  the  window. 
And  every  tint  and  tone  in  that  window 
whispered  and  cooed  that  it  was  getting  on 
towards  Springtime,  mating  time,  and  that 
the  female  of  the  species  had  better  take 
thought  of  her  plumage  before  the  male's 
eyes  were  opened  to  greater  clarity  by  the 
touch  of  the  Spring. 

"Women  are  such  blamed  idiots,"  said 
Miss  Sullivan  to  herself. 

The  shimmer  of  the  glass  gave  back  the 
precise  outline  of  the  small  hat  touched 
with  fur.  It  was  a  very  becoming  hat, 
very  becoming,  but  there  was  no  yielding 


118  THE  BAWLEROUT 

about  that  hat — it  said,  it  looked,  it  meant, 
winter  and  business. 

11  Women  are  such  fools,"  said  Miss  Sul- 
livan, looking  hard  at  a  certain  delicate 
piece  of  headgear  which  she  particularly 
disliked  for  its  feminine  suggestion.  It 
was  of  low  coral  pink  tones  with  a  dash  of 
high  red  that  would  just  match  red  lights 
in  bronze  hair.  "  Idiots  who  put  things 
like  that  on  to  please  men — men!  Oh, 
when  will  the  idiots  ever  realize  that  it  is 
only  by  not  pleasing  men  that  we  can  be 
free.  The  whole  slavery  of  women  is  just 
pictured  in  that  hat.  We  are  men's 
equals  and  a  darn  sight  more  and  yet  we 
go  about  putting  things  like  that  on  our 
silly  heads  so  that  a  man  will  run  after  us 
and  chain  us  up.  .  .  .  It's  .  .  .  . 
it's  disgusting.  .  .  .  That  girl  who  had 
been  in  the  bank  would  be  coming  out  in 
something  like  that  pretty  soon.  .  .  . 
No,  she  wouldn't.  She  hadn't  the  coloring. 
She  would  wear  something  frilly  and 
mousy  on  her  empty  head,  an  empty  head 
with  no  thought  in  it  but  to  get  a  man. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  119 

.  .  .  Well,  let  her  get  a  man — just 
let  her  get  one  and  she  would  find  out. 
.  .  .  That  coral  was  a  new  color."  Miss 
Sullivan  had  seen  what  men  were.  .  .  . 
She  had  seen  what  a  woman  suffered  who 
married  a  man.  .  .  .  Silly  fools, 
women.  Why  didn't  they  leave  the  men 
who  ground  the  last  bit  of  life  out  of  them, 
borrowing  money  and  not  telling  them 
about  it.  ...  Then  the  female  idiots 
most  likely  would  pretend  that  it  was  all 
right  and  fight  tooth  and  nail  for  the  men 
who  were  killing  them.  .  .  .  That 
pink  was  scarcely  pink  at  all.  .  .  . 
Funny  thing  about  women  who  married 
men,  they  seemed  to  become  just  part  of 
them.  ...  Why  didn't  they  ever  see 
that  they  could  do  much  better  alone? 
No,  the  idiots  would  rather  lose  health  and 
happiness  and  freedom  and  everything 
that  makes  life  worth  while,  Kather^  than  be 
free  and  alone.  And  hats  like  that  had  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  the  business,  let  me 
tell  you.  Miss  Sullivan  was  sure  that  if 
she  had  had  the  making  of  the  world  she 


120  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

would  never  have  let  a  milliner  get  into 
it  ...  or  a  man.  .  .  . 

She  looked  at  the  brown  hat.  She 
looked  at  the  pinky-coral  one — she  entered 
the  shop. 

"I  want  to  try  on  that  Gaby  de  Lys  hat 
in  the  window,"  she  said  with  icy  firmness 
to  the  suave  black-gowned  saleswoman  who 
sold  the  chains  that  riveted  the  sexes  to- 
gether. From  shoetip  to  top  of  pompa- 
dour the  saleswoman  quivered  with  psychic 
knowledge  that  the  Gaby  de  Lys  hat  would 
be  the  crown  of  Miss  Sullivan's  life.  As  if 
reaching  for  a  marriage  certificate  she 
parted  the  green  curtains  and  reached  for 
the  hat. 

Miss  Sullivan  had  never  hated  a  woman 
as  she  hated  her.  Besides  she  would  fix 
her.  She  would  just  put  on  the  detest- 
able thing,  look  in  the  mirror,  raise  her 
brows,  take  off  the  hat  and  without  a  word 
leave  the  shop.  That  grinning  thing 
would  discover  that  there  was  one  woman 
in  the  world  who  had  enough  firmness  of 
mind  to  show  her  opinion  of  such  claptrap. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  121 

Besides  she  must  not  spend  an  extra  cent. 
Her  calling  was  closed  to  her,  or  rather  she 
would  not  go  back  to  it.  Who  knew  how 
long  it  would  be  before  she  got  another 
place.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  just  to 
look  scornfully  at  the  horrid  pink  thing 
and  walk  away. 

"Here  is  the  hat,  Madam,"  said  the 
saleswoman.  "Here  is  the  mirror.  That 
coral  was  just  made  for  your  complexion ! ! ! 
Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have  a  complex- 
ion ! ! ! !  Ah !  how  many  of  my  customers 
would  give  their  lives  for  that  red  light  in 
your  hair ! ! ! !  I  have  the  richest  old  thing 
who  goes  to  Paris  to  try  to  get  it.  See  the 
placing  of  this  feather.  And  see  this  is 
the  back  effect.  Let  me  help  you  with  that 
hatpin,  it  has  caught  in  your  veil. ' ' 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  Miss 
Sullivan  emerged  from  the  shop.  There 
was  a  set  look  about  her  mouth,  a  relent- 
less defiance  in  her  eyes  that  made  the  gen- 
tleman who  had  waited  for  her  quail  as 
he  raised  his  hat. 

"Miss  Sullivan,"  he  said. 


122  THE  BAWLEROUT 

Miss  Sullivan  was  at  a  fearful  disad- 
vantage. One  hand  held  a  hat  box,  the 
other  her  muff.  But  Miss  Sullivan's  eyes 
smote  him. 

"I  simply  want  to  tell  you,"  he  bungled 
in  miserable  haste  as  he  saw  her  striving 
to  get  both  muff  and  hat  box  into  one  hand, 
her  left.  ''That — that  I  want  to  make  you 
a  proposal — Oh,  good  Lord,  wait  woman — 
of  honorable  employment — I  have  seen  you 
in  Charkers — I  am  going  to  fight  Chark- 
ers.  I  want  your  help." 

"No" more  loan  sharks  for  mine,"  said 
Miss  Sullivan. 

"I  am  not  a  loan  shark.  I  mean  to  start 
in  this  city  an  agency  to  loan  money  on 
salaries  at  reasonable  rates  and  in  connec- 
tion with  it  a  legal  aid  to  assist  the  victims 
of  the  sharks.  I  want  your  help. ' ' 

Miss  Sullivan  shifted  her  muff  back  to 
her  right  hand. 

''Come  on  into  the  park  and  we  will 
talk,"  said  Miss  Sullivan. 


VIII 

4  4  T  THINK  it  is  perfectly  ridiculous, 
A  your  not  having  a  dress  suit.  Why, 
you  can't  go  anywhere.  There  is  Flora 
Parsons'  dance  on  the  twenty-fifth.  And 
the  night  the  opera  comes  all  the  boys  are 
going  to  dress.  I  am  not  unreasonable, 
Dick,  but  you  are  placing  me  in  a  very 
false  position  before  everybody.  I  am 
known  as  an  engaged  girl,  and,  of  course, 
that  prevents  me  from  receiving  attention 
from  other  men.  Yet  I  simply  have  to  take 
somebody  else  when  it  comes  to  dances  and 
musicales.  This  place  is  a  city  now,  and 
we  are  expected  to  dress  and  act  like  city 
people  do.  There  was  the  assembly  that 
you  should  have  taken  me  to,  and  I  had  to 
go  with  /Boy  Peters.  Several  people 
thought,  when  they  did  not  see  you  there, 
that  you  had  been  dropped  from  the  list.  I 
can 't  tell  you  how  it  humiliated  me. ' '  And 

123 


124  THE  BAWLEROUT 

Edith  Downs  drew  away  from  the  arm  that 
he  tried  to  put  around  her. 

"But,  my  dear,  when  we  are  married 
you  can't  go  to  all  these  things — not  as 
much  as  you  do  now,  I  mean,"  he  added 
hurriedly,  at  the  sight  of  her  frown. 

"Why  not?  I  see  no  reason  why  people, 
when  they  are  married,  should  shun  hu- 
man society  and  act  like  bears  growling  in 


a  cave. 
u 


But  we  won't  growl  in  a  cave,"  he 
grinned.  * '  We  will — ' ' 

Again  she  drew  away.  "Dick,  do  be- 
have. I  know  that  you  always  try  to  talk 
me  round  to  your  way,  but  I  won't  be  talked 
around  this  time.  You  are  making  me 
ridiculous.  Why  don't  you  buy  some  even- 
ing clothes  on  credit?" 

"I  won't  do  that,"  he  said,  almost  an- 
grily. "I  won't  go  into  debt  if  I  never 
have  another  suit." 

"Is  that  all  you  care  for  me?"  Her  lips 
began  to  tremble.  "I  should  think  you 
would  want  to  go  around  with  me. ' ' 

"I  do,  dear."     This  time  he  did  get  her 


THE  BAWLEROUT  125 

hands  and  held  them  in  spite  of  her  ef- 
forts to  draw  them  away.  "You  know  how 
I  love  to  go  with  you.  You  know  how  fond 
I  am  of  dancing,  too.  Why,  it  was  at  a 
dance  that  we — 

' '  Don 't  talk  of  that.  I  won 't  be  brought 
around  that  way  when  I  am  angry,  justly 
angry.  Now,  will  you,  or  won't  you,  take 
me  to  the  opera!" 

' '  Won 't  you  let  me  take  you  in  the  black 
suit?  It  looks  all  right  at  night,  Edith. 
And  nobody  will  see  me,  because  they  will 
all  be  taken  up  looking  at  you. ' ' 

"No — the  black  suit  is  old  style.  The 
well-dressed  men  don't  wear  such  padded 
shoulders  now.  Besides,  if  you  don't  go 
in  evening  clothes,  you  can't  go  at  all. 
Dick,  dear—  She  suddenly  drew  near  to 
him.  Her  pretty  mouth,  which  looked  like 
a  pink  flower,  and  her  eyes,  that  were  so 
like  the  color  of  flowers,  too,  were  near  to 
his  eyes.  She  was  young,  and  the  product 
of  a  little  town,  but  in  her  delicate,  sensu- 
ous appeal  and  seduction  she  was  a  woman, 
and  with  ten  thousand  years  of  woman- 


126  THE  BAWLEROUT 

hood  behind  her  telling  her  how  to  impose 
her  will  on  him.  The  young,  smooth  arms 
were  about  his  neck,  every  bit  of  her,  while 
yielding,  was  commanding  him  to  yield. 
"Dick,  Dick,  you  don't  want  to  make  me 
unhappy,  do  you?  You  don't,  Dick,  do 
you?" 

No,  he  did  not  want  to  make  her  un- 
happy, and  yet — well,  Charker  had  had  him 
fast,  and  though  Charker  held  him  no 
longer,  he  never  again  would  be  the  easy, 
good-natured  boy  whose  shadow  had  flitted 
across  that  door  of  shadows.  He  held  her 
to  him,  but  the  eyes  that  looked  down  at  her 
were  grave.  And,  though  his  mouth 
smiled,  it  was,  nevertheless,  a  mouth  that 
for  a  long  time  had  not  been  used  to  smil- 
ing. 

' '  Listen  to  me,  dear.  I  am  going  to  talk 
to  you  now  as  I  have  never  talked  before. 
You  love  me,  don't  you,  Edith?" 

Through  her  thin  dress  she  could  feel 
the  warm,  hard  muscles  of  his  arms.  The 
firm  flesh  of  his  breast  moved  against  her 
nestling1  cheek.  She  looked  up  at  him  with 


THE  BAWLEBOUT  127 

sudden  fire  in  her  eyes.  "  Yes,"  she  whis- 
pered, her  body  yielding  to  his  touch, 
"yes,"  and  waited  with  dropped  lids  for 
his  kiss. 

He  did  not  kiss  her,  but  smoothed  the 
blond  hair  gently.  There  was  tenderness 
in  his  touch,  but  he  soothed  her  as  he 
would  have  done  a  pretty,  fretful  child. 
The  passion  that  had  looked  from  her  dark 
eyes  was  not  mirrored  in  his  gray  ones. 
A  man  in  love  is  a  boy.  A  girl  in  love  is 
a  woman.  It  was  a  man  who  held  Edith 
Downs  in  his  arms.  A  year  ago  ai  boy  had 
held  her.  Yet  this  man  was  absolutely 
convinced  that  no  change  had  taken  place 
in  his  feeling  for  her.  He  was  sure  he 
loved  her,  only  now  he  could  see  in  her 
character  things  which  the  boy  could  never 
have  seen.  And  this  fact  alone  would  have 
told  a  keen  observer  much. 

"You  see,  dear,  that  I  need  to  save  for 
you  more  than  I  need  the  evening  clothes. 
Can't  you  see  that,  Edith?  You  know  that 
the  only  chance  I  have  of  marrying  you  is 
in  saving  for  you.  When  my  salary  is 


128  THE  BAWLEBOUT 

raised,  we  can  marry.  Until  that  time 
comes  I  owe  it  absolutely  to  you  to  keep 
out  of  debt.  It  is  hard  f of  you,  dear — but 
there  are  many  things  we  could  do  that  are 
within  our  means  and  that  don't  call  for 
evening  clothes." 

She  drew  away  from  him,  or  tried  to,  but 
he  would  not  let  her. 

"With  the  little  money  that  mother  has 
from  her  annuity — it  is  very  little,  but  it 
takes  care  of  her,  almost — and  with  a  lit- 
tle money  in  the  bank,  we  could  risk  getting 
married.  But  even  then  we  have  got  to 
be  very  careful.  Can't  you  see  how  it  is, 
dear?" 

"No."  She  drew  away  now  and  an- 
grily smoothed  up  her  disordered  hair. 
"There  is  no  excuse  for  your  not  going 
around  with  me.  Why  don't  you  quit  the 
old  bank  and  make  money  as  Boy  Peters 
has  done!" 

"I  would  in  a  minute  if  I  could,  but 
mother  needs  some' help.  The  first  chance, 
I  will." 

"Meanwhile,  am  I  supposed  to  go  every- 


THE,  BAWLEROUT  129 

where  with  Roy  Peters'?  He  is  the  only 
friend  I  have  who  is  kind  enough  to  ask 
me." 

"No.  But  you  can  go  with  me.  Why 
don't  we  begin  now  what  we  will  have  to 
do  later?  Go  up  in  the  cheap  seats  at  the 
theater.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  used  to 
have  a  rattling  good  time  in  them. ' ' 

"When  we  were  children,  yes.  But  if  I 
can't  go  to  the  theater  and  sit  where  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  be  seen,  I  won't  go  at  all. 
I  should  think  you  would  have  more  re- 
spect for  the  girl  you  are  going  to  marry 
than  to  want  her  to  look  as  though  she  had 
a  man  who  could  not  afford,  or  was  too 
mean,  to  entertain  her  properly.  No,  if  I 
can't  go  about  with  you  in  a  decent  style, 
I  will  sit  at  home." 

"You  are  perfectly  unreasonable."  He 
pitched  a  soft  cushion  from  him  and  got 
up. 

"I  may  be.  But  it  is  only  because  I 
have  some  pride  in  what  people  may  think 
of  you." 

"Edith  what  difference   does   it   make 


130  THE  BAWLEROUT 

what  people  think  of  us  1  I  see  men  every 
day  who  are  caring  what  people  think  of 
them,  spending  their  salaries  in  an  attempt 
to  make  people  think  that  they  get  twice 
as  much  as  they  do — going  out  one  night 
in  the  week  like  a  prince  and  living  the  rest 
like  a  pauper.  Whereas,  if  they  looked 
their  salaries  fairly  in  the  face  and  lived 
on  them,  they  could  go  with  the  girls  five 
times  as  much  as  they  do  and  have  ten 
times  as  much  fun.  Would  a  girl  rather 
have  a  man  spend  half  his  salary  on  her 
for  one  night,  or  would  she  rather  have  him 
spend  what  he  could  afford  on  her  every 
night?  Since  this  town  has  begun  to  imi- 
tate New  York  no  man  feels  that  a  woman 
is  willing  to  share  his  salary  if  he  marries 
her,  he  thinks  she  wants  to  hog  it.  Before 
we  got  all  these  frills  a  fellow  could  get 
married  on  twenty  dollars  a  week  and  trust 
to  luck.  Now  he  don't  dare  ask  a  girl  to 
go  to  the  theater  if  he  don't  hand  over  five 
dollars  for  a  cab."  i 

"Do  you  want  your  wife  to  be  a  serv- 
ant?" 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  131 

"No,  I  want  her  to  be  a  partner. 
Come  on,  dear,"  he  came  and  bent  over 
her  pouting  prettiness,  "there  is  a  fine 
show  on  at  the  Broad.  Let's  go  down  and 
see  it." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  sit?" 

"In  the  balcony." 

"I  won't  go.  Suppose  some  one  should 
see  us?" 

"Well,  if  we  see  the  play,  what  do  we 
care?"  i 

"Don't  talk  nonsense.  If  I  can't  go 
decently,  I  will  not  go  at  all ! " 

' '  They  will  simply  think  that  we  are  sit- 
ting where  we  have  the  price.  Look  here, 
Edith,  there  is  many  a  man  in  an  orches- 
tra chair  that  would  sit  a  great  deal  easier 
in  the  balcony. ' '  I 

She  picked  up  a  magazine  and  began  to 
read.  He  looked  at  her  for  some  time. 
The  light  on  her  made  a  fine  halo  of  the 
edges  of  her  golden  hair.  She  looked  like 
some  fragile  Saint  Catherine  out  of  an  old 
missal.  , 

"Edith." 


132  THE  BAWLEROUT 

She  turned  a  page. 
"Edith." 

She  turned  two  pages  to  see  the  end  of 
the  story. 

"All  right,"  he  said  sullenly,  "we  will 
go  in  the  orchestra." 

"That's  a  sensible  boy,"  said  the  pretty 
Miss  Downs. 

His  face,  however,  did  not  lose  its 
gravity  under  her  caresses.  But  Miss 
Downs,  having  carried  her  point  and 
shown  her  power,  was  oblivious. 

"I'm  going  to  run  upstairs  and  get  my 
hat,"  she  cried.  "Your  mother  won't 
mind  my  going  out,  will  she?  I  meant  to 
stay  all  evening." 

"No,  she  won't  mind.  Miss  Sullivan 
generally  runs  in  to  sit  with  her. ' ' 

"Who  is  Miss  Sullivan?" 

"A  friend  of  mother's.  She  is  very 
fond  of  mother." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Is  she  older  than  I  am?" 

"Yes." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  133 

"How  much  older!" 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  thought  of  her 
age." 

As  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  Mrs. 
Allen  and  Miss  Sullivan  passed  down  the 
hall  on  the  way  to  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs. 
Allen  was  washing  the  tea  things  after  the 
entertainment  of  her  son's  fiancee.  So  ab- 
sorbed were  they  in  conversation  that  they 
did  not  notice  the  girl  standing  in  the  cur- 
tained doorway.  Edith  Downs  turned 
back  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

"Why  don't  you  get  on  your  hat?" 
Allen  asked. 

"Dick,"  said  the  girl,  "what  is  that 
woman  doing  here?  She  is  the  vulgar 
thing  who  made  that  scene  with  the  presi- 
dent." 

"Don't  call  her  that,"  he  said  angrily. 
"I  can't  explain,  but  she  put  us  all  under 
a  great  obligation.  She  came  here  to  offer 
to  help  mother,  and  she  and  mother  became 
friends. ' ' 

"You  mean  by  obligation  that  loan  that 
you  made  to  help  out  Ben?" 


134  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"I  mean  by  not  losing  me  my  place  in  the 
bank." 

"I  don't  care  about  that.  I  think  it  is 
simply  awful  that  your  mother  should  be 
friends  with  a  woman  of  that  kind. ' ' 

"She  is  a  perfectly  good  girl  as  far  as 
moral  character  goes." 

Miss  Downs  laughed. 

He  colored  with  fury.  "She  saved  my 
place.  You  should  thank  her  for  that." 

Miss  Downs  smiled. 

"Edith,"  he  began  to  pace  in  anger, 
"you  have  no  right  to  sit  there  and  act 
like  that.  I  owe  this  girl,  Miss  Sullivan, 
my  place.  She  comes  in  here  to  be  with 
mother  because  mother  is  lonely.  I  should 
think  you  would  have  a  little  more  kind- 
ness than — than— 

Miss  Downs  burst  into  tears. 

"Aw,  now,"  he  was  kneeling  beside  her 
in  masculine  terror  at  tears,  "what  is  the 
matter?  What  have  I  said?  Edith- 
Edith!  what  have  I  done?  A-w— !" 

"You  know  that  I  would  come  and  sit 


THE  BAWLEROUT  135 

w-w-with  your  m-mother  if  she  had  said 
she  wanted  anybody  to  sit  with  her.  You 
have  no  right  to  say  that  I  am  a  selfish 
thing  not  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  good  heavens!"  he  cried  in  abject, 
terrified,  puzzled  alarm.  "What  are  you 
saying,  Edith?  Mother  never  expects  such 
a  thing  from  you.  And  I  don't,  either." 

Here  Miss  Downs  wailed  pitifully  and 
murmured  something  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  brutal  of  him  to  say  such  things. 

"But,  look  here! — good  Peter! — did  I 
say  anything?" 

Miss  Downs  raised  a  tearful  face. 
"Does  she  like  you?" 

"What  on  earth  are  you  crying  for?" 

"I  know  now  why  you  don't  want  to  go 
to  parties.  Oh,  the  bold-faced  thing!" 
sobbed  the  lady. 

"Why — good  Lord! — I  tell  you  she 
comes  to  see  mother.  She  just  hates  me. 
And  I  don't  like  her.  Edith,  dear,  stop  it 
— they  are  coming." 

Miss  Downs  sprang  to   her   feet.    He 


136  THE  BAWLEROUT 

tried  to  catch  her  in  his  arms,  but  she 
pushed  him  violently  away  and  ran  up- 
stairs. 

"Now,  what  in  the  devil's  name  is  the 
matter  with  her?"  said  Eichard  Allen. 


IX 


4  4  T  WISH  that  you  would  go  into  the 
JL  parlor.  I  want  to  sweep  up  these 
crumbs."  Miss  Sullivan  stood  in  the  door 
leading  from  the  kitchen  into  the  dining- 
room  with  a  whisk  broom  in  one  hand,  a 
dustpan  in  the  other,  and  in  both  eyes  an 
expression  which  said  that  with  little  en- 
couragement, or  none  at  all,  she  would 
gladly  sweep  Mr.  Eichard  Allen  away  with 
the  crumbs. 

The  person  addressed,  not  being  in  the 
best  of  humors  with  her  sex  at  that  mo- 
ment, frowned  at  her  with  his  eyes,  then 
strode  toward  the  parlor  and  departed 
from  Miss  Sullivan. 

Miss  Sullivan  got  under  the  table,  ac- 
'companied  by  the  dustpan.  The  sound  of 
a  rug  swept  briskly  emanated  from  under 
the  table. 

"I  say!    I  want  to  smoke.    I  can't  do 

137 


138  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

it  in  there."     Thus  spoke  Mr.  Allen,  re- 
turning in  gloom  from  the  parlor. 

" Smoke!"  Thus  replied  Miss  Sullivan 
from  under  the  table. 

An  interval  of  silence,  broken  by  the 
broom  and  punctuated  by  trips  of  Mr.  Al- 
len into  the  hall  to  listen  for  sobs. 

"I  say!" 

"Well!"  from  under  the  table. 

"You  ought  not  to  be  doing  these 
things,  you  know." 

"What  things?" 

Whisk !  whisk ! 

"That,  for  instance.  It  is  too  much  to 
expect. ' ' 

"I  suppose  you  would  rather  have  your 
mother  do  it?" 

"Damn!"  from  Mr.  Richard  Allen.  He 
began  to  stride  the  room,  his  cigarette 
smoke  streaming  as  if  the  fires  of  his  anger 
were  escaping  from  his  mouth. 

"Whisk!    whisk!"    from    the    broom.' 
Then,  "If  you  think  I  am  doing  this  for 
you,  you  are  mistaken,  that's  all,"  said  the 
table. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  139 

"I  did  not  suppose  you  were  doing  it  for 
me." 

"Then  you  supposed  just  right." 
Whisk!  whisk! 

"Miss  Sullivan!"  Mr.  Richard  Allen 
waited. 

"Whisk!  whisk!"  said  the  broom. 

"Miss  Sullivan,"  squatting  down  on  his 
heels  to  see  if  she  heard  him,  "I  know  you 
hate  me." 

"I  don't  hate  you.  I  don't  think  any- 
thing about  you." 

"I  apologize  to  you  for  seeming  rude. 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  me." 

"I  would  not  mind  you  if  you  were  my 
own  father." 

"I  don't  mean  mind  me — I  mean — Why 
do  you  twist  a  man's  words?" 

1 '  I  don 't  twist  your  words.  I  don 't  even 
remember  what  you  said.  I  just  told  you 
that  I  would  not  mind  you.  And  I  won't. 
Do  you  want  me  to  1 " 

He  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room  again 
impatiently. 

More  sounds  from  the  broom. 


140  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

"Miss  Sullivan,"  squatting  down  once 
more. 

"Mr.  Allen." 

' '  I  wish  to  apologize.    I  was  rude. ' ' 

1  i  I  did  not  notice  it. ' ' 

"I  offer  you  my  apology,"  getting  an- 
gry; "you  can  take  it  or  leave  it." 

"Well,  lay  it  on  the  table.  I  have  both 
hands  busy  now. ' ' 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  getting  more 
angry,  "that  I  appreciate  all  you  do  for 
mother.  It  is  very  unselfish  of  you." 

"You  make  me  tired." 

Here  Mr.  Allen  on  his  haunches  and  Miss 
Sullivan  on  her  knees  glared  at  each  other. 

"I  know  I  do,"  now  very  angry,  "but 
that  won't  prevent  me  telling  you  that  I 
appreciate  what  you  do  for  her.  Look 
here!"  violence  now,  "don't  you  suppose 
I  love  my  mother?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  think  you  hated  her." 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  she  is 
lonely?  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  how 
hard  she  has  to  work?  Do  you  think  I  like 
to  see  her  sweeping  and  washing  dishes 


THE  BAWLEROUT  141 

and  making  beds  ?  Do  you  think  I  like  to 
see  her  doing  the  housework?" 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  you  help  her  with 
some  of  it?" 

"I — ?"  He  opened  his  mouth  wide, 
then  turned  a  violent  beet  color,  then  cried 
with  rage,  "I  will.  You  give  me  that 
broom." 

"I  won't." 

"All  right.    I  will  get  one  for  myself." 

In  a  whirl  of  passion  he  rushed  into  the 
kitchen.  Protestations,  asseverations  broke 
forth  there.  In  another  moment  he  had 
returned,  clutching  a  broom  and  followed 
by  the  dazed  little  old  lady. 

"Go  away,  mother."  He  tore  the  rug 
with  the  bristles.  Dust  flew  under  power- 
ful sweeps. 

"My  boy,  what  are  you  doing?  Oh,  me! 
what  has  happened?  What  is  it?"  The 
little  old  lady  wrung  her  hands,  completely 
overcome  by  the  horror  of  a  man  doing 
housework. 

Miss  Sullivan,  having  scrambled  from 
under  the  table,  now  shivered  with  anxiety 


142  THE  BAWLEROUT 

for  the  furniture,  and  in  her  face  was  pic- 
tured vividly  the  feminine  distaste  and  fear 
at  the  sight  of  a  man  treading  heavily  upon 
a  woman's  rights. 

When  the  violent  conflict  of  rug  and 
broom  threatened  the  demolition  of  a  slen- 
der serving  table  and  its  china  burden, 
'  both  women  could  bear  the  agony  no 
longer.  It  was  Miss  Sullivan  who  tore  the 
broom  away,  it  was  the  mother  who  hur- 
ried with  it  into  the  kitchen. 

"Now  you  see!"  He  was  scarlet  with 
exertion  and  passion.  The  sweat  dewed 
his  forehead.  "You  won't  even  let  a  man 
help  you  if  he  wants  to.  Talk  about  logic ! 
A  woman  hasn't  got  it." 

"Talk  about  sense,  a  man  don't  know 
what  it  is!" 

"You  expect  a  man  to  be  a  mind  reader 
and  know  what  he  is  to  do  without  your 
telling  him,  and  as  soon  as  he  starts  to  do 
it  you  all  rush  and  stop  him.  But  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing, ' '  giving  her  a  furious  glare, 
"I  am  going  to  be  grateful  to  you  whether 
you  like  it  or  not." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  143 

"My  goodness!  what  an  awful  temper 
you  have. ' ' 

"I  have  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  a 
little  decent  feeling,  and  when  I  try  to  tell 
you —  Oh,  I  must  get  out  of  this  and 
swear."  He  dashed  into  the  parlor.  A 
loud  "damn"  bounded  out  before  the  door 
banged. 

Miss  Sullivan  began  to  wipe  off  the  table. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  have  no  right  to 
get  married  with  mother  dependent  on 
me?"  This  from  Mr.  Allen  re-entering 
with  violence. 

Miss  Sullivan  blazed  from  head  to  foot. 

"How  dare  you!"  banging  on  the  table 
with  the  cloth,  "how  dare  you  think  I  think 
such  a  thing?  How  dare  you  think  I  think 
one  thought  about  you  and  your  marriage ! 
How  dare  you  think  I  think  anything  at 
all  about  anything  whatever ! ' ' 

"Oh,  me!  is  anything  the  matter?"  said 
the  little  old  lady,  appearing  suddenly,  ex- 
actly as  if  she  were  a  little  old  lady  in  a 
clock  coming  out  to  show  that  there  were  to 
be  storms. 


144  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Sullivan,  dart- 
ing fire  at  Mr.  Allen. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  smolder- 
ing at  Miss  Sullivan. 

"I  thought  you  were  quarreling,"  and 
the  little  old  lady  disappeared  exactly  like 
the  one  in  the  clock  would  have  done  had 
she  come  out  with  her  umbrella  and  found 
the  sun  shining. 

"I  wish  to  say,"  said  the  smoldering 
Mr.  Allen,  "and  in  justice  to  myself  I  will 
say  it,  that — " 

"I  wish  to  say  that  I  won't  hear  a 
word." 

"And  I  wish  to  say —    Say,  look  here." 

"Thank  you,"  head  bent,  polishing  the 
table,  "but  I  don't  see  anything  to  look 
at." 

"In  justice  to  myself,  Miss  Sullivan— 

"Can't  you  talk  about  anything  but 
yourself?" 

Mr.  Allen  had  to  take  a  few  moments  to 
get  his  breathing  below  the  danger  point, 
then: 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  am  selfish?" 


THE  BAWLEROUT  145 

"I  am  not  supposed  to  think — and  I 
don't  think — I  am  a  woman.  And  let  me 
tell  you  that  women  are  logical.  The 
idea—  She  pressed  her  lips  shut  and 
rubbed  the  table  as  if  to  rub  its  face  off. 

"You  do  think.    You  can't  help  it." 

' '  I  can — about  you. ' ' 

"I  simply  want  to  say  this,  that  I  have 
no  more  intention  of  deserting  my  mother 
when  I  am  married  than —  Hang  it !  She 
is  going  to  live  with  us. ' ' 

"Then — "  the  cloth  stopped,  Miss  Sul- 
livan raised  stricken  eyes,  "you  are  not  go- 
ing away  and  live  somewhere  else?" 

"No.    I  will  live  right  here." 

At  those  awful  words  Miss  Sullivan,  ex- 
bawlerout  for  Charker,  the  girl  who  had 
braved  Bed  February,  dropped  the  cloth, 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  burst 
into  tears.  "I  thought  you  were  going 
away,"  she  sobbed. 

"Miss  Sullivan — Miss  Sullivan!"  Fran- 
tic and  stricken,  Mr.  Richard  Allen  cried 
the  name  as  if  he  called  on  her  to  save  his 
life.  * '  What  have  I  said,  Miss  Sullivan  f — 


146  THE  BAWLEROUT 

Oh,  what  in  hell  has  got  into  the  women  to- 
night? Missi  Sullivan,  what  have  I  said?" 

"I — I  thought  you  were  going  to  move 
away,"  sobbed  the  lady,  "and  now — now 
your  wife  will  never  let  me  come  to  see 
your  mother — and — and — your — your — 
she's  the  only  friend  I  have — oh! — oh! — 

"Awh,  now!"  Mr.  Eichard  Allen  ran 
around  the  table  and  did  the  fool  thing 
that  men  all  do  when  a  woman  is  sobbing 
behind  her  hands — tore  those  hands  from 
her  disfigured  face.  My  fellow-men  and 
lovers,  always  remember  that  when  a  lady 
hides  her  face  she  does  not  do  it  because 
she  thinks  it  too  beautiful  to  be  seen  of 
men.  Mr.  Richard  Allen  tore  those  hands 
away.  He  was  once  more  a  pleading, 
panicky  youngster,  abhorrent  of  tears. 

"Awh,  don't  cry,  Miss  Sullivan.  Why, 
you  shall  see  mother  all  you  want  to.  Why 
— why,  the  very  idea  that  Edith  and  I 
should  be  such  beasts.  My  wife  will  just 
love  you  because  you  are  so  good  to  mother. 
She'll  just  love  you.  And  we  will  all  be  a 
happy  family,  just  like  we  are  now. ' ' 


THE  BAWLEROUT  147 

Miss  Sullivan  jerked  away  from  him. 
"I  always  did — hate — a  woman — that  sniv- 
eled," said  Miss  Sullivan,  drying  her  eyes 
with  the  polishing  cloth. 

"I  had  no  idea  that  you  cared  so  for 
mother,"  said  Dick  Allen. 

' '  Care  for  her ! ' '  The  girl  spoke  softly, 
and,  turning  her  face  from  him,  leaned 
against  the  table.  Her  wet  eyes,  looking 
at  a  figure  in  the  carpet,  were  tired  and 
wistful.  "It  was  too  good  to  last."  Her 
voice  became  controlled.  "Too  good  to 
last.  It  was  almost — almost  like  old  times, 
long  ago — when  I  was  a  girl — a  little  girl. ' ' 

She  turned  to  him,  anxiously,  watching 
her  from  under  drawn  brows.  '  *  You  see, ' ' 
her  voice  was  gentle,  and  gentleness  and 
sweetness  suddenly  seemed  to  envelop  her 
under  his  pitying  eyes,  "I  have  been  lonely 
— so  lonely  for  years.  The  women  I  could 
have  known,  well,  I  did  not  want  to  know — 
and  those  I  wanted  to  know  I  could  not 
know.  And  I  never  did  have  any  use  for 
men — the  kind  of  men  that  had  any  use  for 
me,  I  mean.  I  guess  that  every  woman, 


148  THE  BAWLEROUT 

no  matter  how  much  she  hates  men,  has  got 
somewhere  in  her  mind  a  hope  that  one 
will  come  along,  some  day,  and  keep  her 
from  being  lonely.  I  know  that  man  will 
never  turn  up  for  me.  I  am  too  hard  and 
rough  for  that.  It  is  the  soft,  pretty  girls 
that  men  go  after.  The  kind  of  a  man 
that  would  go  after  me  would  be  the  kind 
that  a  woman  wants  to  slap  over  the  mouth 
the  minute  he  looks  at  her."  She  smiled 
gayly  with  lips  that  wanted  to  tremble. 
''And  I  have  slapped  a  few  faces  in  my 
time.  So  you  see  it 's  been  a  hall-room  life 
for  me.  And  since  I  have  known  the  little 
lady  in  there — well — it  has  been  like  long 
ago — like  home. ' ' 

"Look  here,"  Mr.  Allen  was  very  seri- 
ous, "why  do  you  say  that  the  right  man 
will  never  turn  up  for  you  ? ' ' 

"Because,"  Miss  Sullivan  was  very  seri- 
ous, "I  am  such  a  fool  that  I  would  not 
know  him  if  he  did.  Probably  the  minute 
he  came  I  would  get  into  a  fight  with  him 
and  chase  him  away." 

"Um — you  are  a  funny  girl.    But,"  he 


THE  BAWLEKOUT  149 

grinned  the  old  grin  that  Charker  had 
wiped  from  his  face,  "I  am  going  to  be 
your  friend  whether  you  let  me  or  not.  In 
fact,"  twinkling  and  tapping  the  table,  "I 
am  going  to  be  a  brother  to  you.  I  have 
watched  you  with  the  little  lady,  and  seen 
how  much  brighter  and  happier  she  has 
been  since  you  came,  and  I  wanted  to  say 
how  much  I  appreciated  it  long  ago — but, 
you  see,  I  have  been  afraid  of  you.  I 
never  thought  you  liked  me.  And,  to  tell 
the  truth,"  he  spoke  in  a  puzzled  tone,  "it 
is  funny,  but  I  never  thought  I  liked  you. 
But  I  do." 

"You  know,  I  thought  I  hated  you,"  said 
the  lady,  "but  I  don't."  This  in  slow 
astonishment.  ' '  Say,  it  is  very  queer  how 
people  can  go  along  just  boiling  to  fight 
each  other,  and  then  find  out  that  what 
they  really  want  is  to  shake  hands. ' ' 

* '  Let 's  do  it. ' '  He  grinned  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

They  shook. 

' '  What  is  your  first  name  1 ' '  said  the  boy. 

"I  won't  tell  you." 


150  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

' '  Then  I  shall  ask  mother. ' ' 

' '  She  promised  me  not  to  tell  anybody. ' ' 

"What  is  the  matter  with  it?" 

' '  It  is  a  fool  name — for  me. ' ' 

"All  right,  I  won't  ask.  But  I  should 
like  to  call  you  by  it,  or  something.  'Miss 
Sullivan. '  I  don 't  like  that. '  » 

"No.  Sounds  like  a  prize  fighter,  don't 
it?  I  must  have  some  Irish  in  me.  But 
the  other  is  worse.  If  we  are  to  be  friends, 
never,  never  ask  me  what  it  is.  After  all, ' ' 
she  looked  at  him  carefully,  "you  must  be 
a  nice  boy." 

"Why?"  with  a  grin. 

"Because  if  Heaven  saw  fit  to  make  your 
mother,  when  it  came  to  making  you, 
Heaven  could  not  help  just  putting  in  a 
little  bit  of  her  to  show  that  it  knew  a  good 
thing  when  it  had  done  it.  ...  All 
right,  we're  friends."  She  laughed  and 
picked  up  the  polishing  cloth.  Like  the 
lady  in  Horace's  ode,  she  was  "a  sweet 
laughter."  "By  the  by,  boy,  the  gentle- 
man that  I  work  for,  Mr.  Brice,  wants  to 
talk  with  you." 


THE  BAWLEKOUT  151 

"Brice?    Who  is  he?" 

"He  is  a  man  who  has  got  as  fine  a  heart 
as  he  has  a  bank  account,  and  that  is  say- 
ing a  lot  for  a  millionaire.  He  is  the  man 
who  is  trying  to  get  the  legislature  to  pass 
that  bill  against  the  loan  sharks.  He  is 
the  man  who  started  the  company  I  work 
for  now  to  lend  money  to  the  poor  at  the 
legal  rate  of  interest.  He  is  the  man  who 
is  trying  to  find  out  who  Charker  is,  to  put 
him  in  jail.  And  I  am  helping  him.  He 
told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would  see  him? 
I  told  him  to  come  around  to-night  and 
make  you  see  him." 

"What  does  he  want  with  me?" 

"Your  experience  with  Charker." 

"No,  no,  I  can't.  I  hate  to  remember 
it." 

"He  don't  want  to  use  your  name,  or 
get  you  into  trouble.  He  wants  to  publish 
a  string  of  cases  that  Charker  has  had. 
All  that  he  would  say  about  you  would  be 
to  head  it  'Case  of  a  Bank  Clerk.'  " 

"I  don't  want  even  to  think  of  it."  He 
gave  a  shudder. 


152  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"But,  boy,"  she  leaned  on  her  arms  on 
the  table  and  reasoned  earnestly,  "if  by 
having  your  case  published  you  could  help 
pass  that  bill?" 

"I  don't  see  how  it  would  help  the  bill." 

"Why,  it  would  show  the  people  what 
Charker  and  his  gang  are  about.  If  you 
can  make  people  stop  and  think  of  that 
by  giving  Mr.  Brice  the  story,  have  you 
got  any  right  to  keep  it  back  1 y ' 

"But—" 

"Have  you,  boy?" 

"I  know— still—  " 

"You  know  that  it  is  only  by  talking  that 
people  get  to  acting.  If  you  were  to  hear 
of  five  hundred  miners  entombed  and 
starving  out  in  Colorado,  you  would  feel 
sorry,  but  you  would  eat  your  dinner  just 
the  same.  But  if  you  saw  a  pile  of  dirt  in 
that  street  and  heard  that  under  it  a  man 
was  gasping  and  struggling  out  his  life, 
your  coat  would  come  off  and  you  would 
work  until  you  were  dead  to  save  him,  be- 
cause the  thing  would  be  under  your  eyes. 
That  is  what  Mr.  Brice  wants  to  do — put 


THE  BAWLEROUT  153 

the  people  that,  are  struggling  and  gasping 
in  Charker's  clutch  right  under  every- 
body's eyes.  You  will  help,  won't  you, 
boy?" 

"Certainly  I  will,  and  gladly.  "When 
will  he  be  here?" 

"To-night.  You  will  be  in,  won't 
you?" 

"Yes.  But,  see  here,  how  do  you  know 
that  you  would  not  know  the  man  that  you 
were  going  to  fall  in  love  with?  You 
would  know,  right  off. ' ' 

"Is  that  the  way  it  is?" 

"Certainly.  "When  people  have  fallen 
in  love  they  know  it,  right  away." 

"How?" 

"Well,  by  thinking  of  each  other  all  the 
time,  and  not  being  able  to  get  each  other 
out  of  their  minds  for  a  minute.  Now, 
when  I  fell  in  love  with  Edith—"  As  if 
the  name  had  been  a  bullet  which  hit  him, 
he  started  violently,  jerked  out  his  watch, 
looked  at  it,  then  ran  for  the  stairs. 
"Edith,  dear,"  he  called,  "we  will  be  late 
if  you  don't  hurry."  He  returned  on  the 


154  THE  BAWLEROUT 

run  to  the  sideboard  and  took  from  a 
drawer  a  pair  of  opera  glasses. 

Miss  Sullivan,  carrying  a  broom  and 
dustpan,  rushed  for  the  kitchen. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  cried  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Allen,  intercepting  her.  "I  want  you 
to  meet  Miss  Downs." 

"Don't  stop  me,"  trying  to  elude  him 
and  escape,  "I  have  to  help  your 
mother. ' ' 

"I  have  finished  everything  in  the 
kitchen,"  said  the  little  old  lady,  entering 
with  a  work  basket. 

"You  must  meet  Miss  Downs —  She 
will  be  glad  to — I  want  you  to  meet  Miss 
Downs,"  he  mumbled  suddenly,  one  ear 
cocked  for  the  sound  of  feet  which  would 
tell  him  that  a  storm  was  rolling  down  the 
stairs.  "You  won't  mind  if  she — er — • 
seems  a  little  cold — she  is  not  well — er— 
had  a  headache." 

"I  won't  mind,"  said  Miss  Sullivan,  col- 
oring, but  straightening  up. 

"Here  she  comes,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  look- 
ing as  if  he  would  run  if  he  dared. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  155 

Miss  Sullivan  put  down  broom  and  dust- 
pan, took  off  her  apron,  and  felt  of  her 
placket.  Mr.  Allen,  rigid  with  anxiety, 
gazed  toward  the  stairs  down  which  came 
the  sound  of  French  heels.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  should  feel  as  if  his  fiancee 
were  coming  with  a  knife  ready  to  plunge 
into  every  bosoin  about  her,  but  he  did  feel 
that  way. 

The  heels  drew  nearer. 

Mr.  Allen  paled.  Miss  Sullivan  flushed, 
ceased  to  touch  her  hair,  and  suddenly 
picked  up  the  apron  and  tied  it  on  again. 
Since  Miss  Sullivan  intended  to  wear  that 
apron  that  evening,  it  was  foolish  not  to 
wear  it.  It  was  absolutely  ridiculous  to 
care  for  a  moment  how  she  appeared  be- 
fore this  girl — absolutely  foolish.  What 
did  she  care  what  the  girl  thought  of  her? 

The  heels  drew  nearer. 

Mr.  Allen  felt  a  cold  finger  run  up  his 
spine.  It  would  hurt  his  mother  if  Edith 
were  rude  to  the  girl.  Mr.  Allen  would  be 
angry,  justly  angry,  if  his  mother  were 
hurt. 


156  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

On  the  stairs  a  pair  of  little  feet  in 
patent  leather  pumps  with  Louis  heels  de- 
scended into  view.  Then  came  by  degrees 
a  soft  cream-colored  theater  cloak  flashed 
with  silver  embroidery,  and  then  a  golden 
vision  that  might  have  been  Saint  Cather- 
ine in  a  huge  picture  hat  with  sweeping 
cream-colored  plumes.  From  under  the 
drooping  plumes  Saint  Catherine  smiled  a 
sweet  and  celestial  smile  upon  everybody. 

"Have  I  kept  you  waiting,  Dick,  dear!" 
said  a  gentle  voice. 

Like  the  monk  of  old,  Dick  was  struck 
dumb  on  beholding  the  lady  who  had  gone 
up  in  fire  descend  in  sunshine.  Like  the 
gentle  dew  from  Heaven,  Miss  Downs 
softy  descended  upon  the  just  and  the  un- 
just. Earthly  dew,  being  of  the  earth, 
rises.  Heavenly  dew  descends.  Miss 
Downs  descended. 

Casting  a  shower  of  smiles  upon  every- 
one, Saint  Catherine  entered  the  dining- 
room.  Murmuring  love  and  tenderness, 
she  folded  the  astonished  little  old  lady  to 
her  heart.  Murmurs  of  soft  reproach  to 


THE  BAWLEROUT  157 

Dick  for  dragging  Saint  Catherine  away 
from  his  mother  when  the  Saint  had  come 
to  spend  the  evening  with  her,  were  heard ; 
promises  of  many  evenings  in  the  lady's 
bosom  were  heard;  love,  affection,  adora- 
tion, and  idolatry  for  the  old  lady  were 
heard.  Then  Saint  Catherine  turned  to 
the  earth-born  Miss  Sullivan. 

Saint  Catherine  was  charmed  to  meet 
Miss  Sullivan,  she  had  heard  nothing  but 
praise  of  Miss  Sullivan,  there  had  never 
been  anybody  that  she  had  ever  met,  there 
was  never  anybody  that  she  expected  to 
meet,  there  was  never  anybody  that  she 
could  meet,  that  would  so  delight  her  to 
meet,  or  would  have  so  delighted  her  to 
have  met,  as  Miss  Sullivan ! 

Saint  Catherine  then  floated  to  her  earth- 
born  suitor's  side,  took  his  arm  as  if  it  was 
the  last  and  dearest  of  her  earthly  pos- 
sessions, and  wafted  him  away  to  see  ' '  The 
Rogers  Brothers  in  Africa." 

Miss  Sullivan  stood  dazed,  motionless. 
Perhaps  Miss  Sullivan  was  listening  for 
the  strains  of  the  heavenly  orchestra  which 


158  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

surely  must  have  accompanied  the  wafting. 

"What  a  pretty  thing  she  is,"  said  the 
mother,  sitting  down  beside  the  lamp  now 
placed  on  the  dining-room  table. 

"She  is  beautiful — and  a  lady,"  said  the 
girl.  Her  face  was  very  thoughtful,  the 
blue  eyes  wistful  as  when  she  had  spoken 
of  the  home  she  had  lost  long  ago. 

The  mother  looked  up  at  her,  this  girl 
so  strong  and  yet  to  her  so  gentle,  this 
girl  who  had  come  of  nights  that  an  old 
woman  should  not  be  lonely.  In  that 
young  face,  softened  by  the  lamplight, 
there  was  none  of  the  hidden  intolerance  of 
youth  for  age,  its  power  to  take  all  and  in- 
ability to  remember  that  it  should  give  any- 
thing. The  lonely  young  girl  and  the 
lonely  old  lady  looked  at  each  other  in  the 
placid  lamplight.  Then  the  mother  drew 
the  girl  to  her,  the  old  wrinkled  hands 
clasping  the  strong  young  ones  tenderly. 

"My  dear,  you  are  as  good  to  me  as  my 
own  daughter,  and  as  dear."  The  girl 
sank  to  her  knees  and  the  glory  of  her  hair 
lay  on  the  old  woman's  lap.  "What  is  it, 


THE  BAWLEROUT  159 

dear  1 ' '  The  wrinkled  hands  smoothed  the 
rich,  live  hair,  afire  with  the  light  of  youth. 

* '  Nothing, ' '  said  the  girl,  very  low, ' '  but 
you  are  so  good  to  let  me  love  you.  I 
never  thought  I  would  find  anybody  who 
would  let  me  love  her." 

She  felt  the  touch  of  lips  on  her  hair. 


UTS  that  the  bell?"  said  Mrs.  Allen. 
J[  As  she  had  heard  that  bell  for  only 
thirty  years,  the  question  was  a  natural 
one. 

"I  will  see  who  it  is."  Miss  Sullivan 
got  to  her  feet  and  ran  from  the  room. 

The  little  old  lady  heard  murmurs  in 
the  hall,  but,  as  no  caller  appeared,  she 
concluded  that  it  was  some  tradesman. 
Bit  by  bit,  the  girl  had  come  to  take  the  lit- 
tle worries  and  duties  of  the  household  off 
her  old  friend's  shoulders  in  as  far  as  her 
own  busy  life  permitted.  Presuming  that 
she  would  presently  be  told  that  some  late 
chops  for  the  next  day's  breakfast  had  been 
put  in  the  icebox,  or  that  the  bread  would 
be  found  in  the  pantry,  the  little  old  lady 
sewed  on,  singing  to  herself  an  old  tune,  in 
a  voice  that  had  been  much  admired  at 
about  the  same  time  that  the  song  was  first 

160 


THE  BAWLEROUT  161 

heard.  For  a  long  time  the  shadow  of 
Charker  had  hushed  that  old  song,  but  she 
sang  it  now. 

"Bright  bloomed  the  Indian  girl,  fair  Al- 

feretta, 
Where  flow  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juni- 

ata." 

The  bright-blooming  Alferetta  was  sud- 
denly banished  by  the  entrance  of  Miss 
Sullivan,  followed  by  a  heavy-treading 
man. 

"Mrs.  Allen,  this  man  says  that  he 
wishes  to  see  you." 

Out  of  the  dim  hall  emerged  a  man,  a 
thick  man,  in  thick  clothes — his  very  eyes 
looked  thick,  as  though  they  were  iron 
doors  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  sights 
that  would  disturb  his  inner  spirit.  See- 
ing him  clear  in  the  lamplight,  the  girl  con- 
fronted him  as  if  she  would  bar  his  further 
entrance  into  the  home. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  old  lady,  look- 
ing over  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 


162  THE  BAWLEROUT 

' '  Are  you  the  mother  of  Richard  Allen  ? ' ' 

"She  is  the  mother  of  Mr.  Richard  Al- 
len," said  Miss  Sullivan. 

Menace  had  come  into  the  placid  room 
with  this  man.  The  girl  reared  at  it,  the 
mother  trembled. 

"What  do  you  want  with  my  son?" 

"Want  to  see  him." 

"Why?"  This  from  the  girl  with  the 
blue  eyes  gone  hard. 

The  man  looked  at  the  mother.  Some- 
thing in  that  look  made  the  girl  step  be- 
tween it  and  the  little  black  figure  with  the 
lamplight  shining  on  the  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles. 

"What  is  your  business  with  him?" 

"Is  he  in?"  The  question  was  for  the 
mother. 

"You  can't  see  him  unless  you  give  your 
name,"  answered  the  girl. 

' '  What  do  you  want  with  my  son  ? ' '  asked 
the  mother,  rising  from  the  rocker. 

"Is  he  in?" 

"What  is  your  name?"  This  from  the 
girl. 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  163 

"Are  you  his  wife?"  Now  lie  looked  at 
her  and  gave  her  his  hard  attention. 

"No."  Her  face  flamed.  "What  do 
you  want?  Answer  me,  or  I'll  put  you 
out." 

"My  son  is  not  in  now.  What  is  your 
business  with  him?"  said  the  mother. 

' '  Where  has  he  gone  I ' ' 

"Out,"  said  Miss  Sullivan.  "Just 
where  you  are  going."  She  advanced  to- 
ward him. 

* '  See  here,  you ! ' '  said  the  man  roughly. 

Instantly  her  temper  flamed  to  the  rasp 
of  his  voice. 

"See  here,  you,  don't  you  'you'  me!" 
She  was  the  girl  who  had  clasped  Ked 
February 's  punch  bowl.  She  looked  at  the 
man  as  she  had  looked  at  the  bowl,  pre- 
pared to  get  her  way  or  smash. 

"I'll  show  you  something,"  said  the  man 
uneasily. 

"You'll  show  me  your  business  here." 

"I  won't." 

"You  won't? — well,  then,  I'll  show  you 
something.  Look  here,  that's  the  door," 


164  THE  BAWLEROUT 

she  pointed,  "and  that's  you.  Make  a 
combination  mighty  quick  or  I  will  add  a 
third — and  that  will  be  me."  She  strode 
at  him. 

There  is  something  behind  a  resolute  eye 
that  is  better  than  resolute  arms.  He 
backed  into  the  hall.  He  backed  out  of  the 
front  door.  She  locked  the  door  and  hur- 
ried back  to  the  dining-room. 

"What  did  that  man  want  with  Dick? 
Oh,  what  did  he  want?"  cried  the  mother 
anxiously. 

The  girl  laughed.  "To  borrow  money. 
Mr.  Allen — is  so  easy.  Now,  don't  you 
worry,  little  lady,  I  know  that  kind.  He 
wanted  to  borrow  money. ' ' 

Her  gayety  was  strength,  and  the  mother 
found  it  so. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  don't  think— I  know." 

The  mother  returned  to  the  rocker. 

"He  frightened  me,  that  man." 

"He  did  not  frighten  me."  She 
laughed. 

"No,  you  never  seem  to  be  afraid  of  any- 


THE  BAWLEROUT  165 

thing.  But  why  are  you  looking  so  sad, 
dear?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  way  I  fired  that 
man  out,  and — and — that  I  never  could  act 
like  a  lady  if  I  lived  a  thousand  years." 
Very  mournfully  spoke  Miss  Sullivan  of 
the  punch  bowl.  "Why,  the  very  name 
'lady'  means  gentlewoman.  And  who 
would  ever  call  me  that?" 

' '  My  dear — oh,  don 't  cry ! ' ' 

The  girl's  head  was  down  on  the  table. 

"The  nearest  I  will  ever  get  to  being  a 
lady  will  be  being  a  'sales  lady,'  •'  sobbed 
Miss  Sullivan.  Then  she  looked  up  at  the 
fluttering,  tender  consoler  who  was  patting 
her  shoulder,  and  she  laughed  brightly. 
"No  matter.  It  must  be  awful  to  be  re- 
fined when  you  get  mad." 

"My  love,  don't  speak  so  of  yourself. 
I  wish  that  you  were  my  own  daughter." 

"You  do?  "wide  eyed.     "Just  as  I  am?" 

"Just  as  you  are." 

Miss  Sullivan  sprang  up.  "The  lamp's 
too  high,"  she  cried.  As  she  fixed  it  she 
murmured  to  herself, ' '  Sniveled  twice,  and 


166  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

I  feel  as  if  I  could  again.  What  has  hap- 
pened to  me  to-night1?" 

" There  is  the  bell  again,"  cried  the 
mother.  "It  is  that  man — it  is." 

Miss  Sullivan  ran  to  the  door.  The 
mother  followed  her  and  peered  anxiously 
down  the  hall.  She  saw  the  gleam  of  a  silk 
hat,  and  before  she  had  time  to  wonder  the 
girl  returned. 

"It  was  not  that  man,  Mrs.  Allen.  But 
Mr.  Brice,  my  employer,  is  here.  He 
wants  to  speak  to  me  for  a  few  minutes  on 
business.  May  I  take  him  in  the  parlor?" 

' '  Oh,  me !  the  parlor  is  all  torn  up.  The 
woman  is  coming  to  clean  it  to-morrow. 
Would  he  mind  coming  in  here?  Oh,  me, 
I  am  sorry  that  I  told  Annie  to  come  on 
Thursday." 

"He  won't  mind." 

"Very  well,  but  be  sure  to  make  my  ex- 
cuses for  not  having  him  in  the  parlor.  I 
am  going  upstairs  to  turn  down  Dick's 
bed."  And  little  Mrs.  Allen  fluttered 
through  the  parlor  door  and  upstairs  for 
those  rites  about  night  garments  and  beds 


THE  BAWLEROUT  167 

which  are  so  necessary.  Most  women 
think  that  if  they  do  not  turn  down  a  bed 
for  him  a  man  will  not  know  how  to  get  into 
it. 

Brice  entered  the  dining-room.  He  was 
one  of  the  few  men  who  in  evening  clothes 
and  a  fur  coat  did  not  look  like  a  plain- 
clothes  man  at  a  fashionable  wedding. 

"I  am  sorry  he  has  gone  out,"  he  was 
saying  as  he  entered.  "But  I  can'  call  any 
time.  You  say  he  will  give  me  his  story?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"Well,  that  is  not  what  I  want  to  know. 
I  have  had  some  reports  from  my  detect- 
ives, and  in  connection  with  them  it  oc- 
curred to  me  to  ask  you  a  question  or  two. ' ' 

"What  are  they,  Mr.  Brice!" 

"You  told  me  Charker  discharged  you 
himself!" 

"So  I  was  told." 

"For  no  cause!" 

"None  that  I  know  of." 

"You  denounced  the  president  of  the  To- 
bacco National,  so  I  am  told." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Brice.    But  if  Charker  had 


168  THE  BAWLEROUT 

known  of  that  he  would  have  raised  my 
salary.  I  will  say  one  thing  for  old  Ben- 
dis,  he  is  the  worst  foe  of  the  loan  sharks 
in  the  city.  He  is  the  head  of  the  banded 
employers  who  refuse  to  employ  anyone 
who  borrows  from  them." 

Brice  looked  at  her  significantly.  "Yes, 
thereby  enabling  the  loan  sharks  to  hold 
the  finest  sword  ever  made  over  their  vic- 
tims'  heads." 

"Surely,  Mr.  Brice — you  don't  mean — 
that  Mr.  Bendis—  ?" 

"No.  I  have  investigated  him.  But  I 
have  found  who  Charker  is. ' ' 

"Who?    Are  you  going  to  arrest  him?" 

"I  say  I  have  found  out  who  he  is,  but 
that  is  a  long  way  from  finding  him.  My 
detectives  discovered  from  a  discharged 
employe  of  Charker 's  that  all  the  money 
taken  in  is  credited  to  a  man  called  Bloom- 
field  Campbell.  But  there  we  stick.  Did 
you  ever  see  or  hear  of  anybody  connected 
with  that  office  named  Campbell?" 

"No,  Mr.  Brice."  i 

"Well,  we  know  that  he  is  Charker.    If 


THE  BAWLEROUT  169 

I  can  get  him  in  my  net  I  will  tear  a  hole 
in  the  net  that  Charker  has  put  around  the 
small  fry,  and  rip  this  rotten  business  of 
salary  loans  to  pieces  for  a  while." 
"You  think  Mr.  Bendis  is  in  it?" 
' '  No — although  I  am  frank  enough  to  say 
I  suspected  him.  But  I  know  now  that  he 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Campbell  is  the 
man.  When  I  get  Campbell  I  shall  get 
Charker.  And  when  I  get  Charker  he  will 
get  jail."  The  sudden  tightening  of  the 
mouth,  the  narrowing  of  the  eyes  made  his 
face  almost  fanatical.  Brice  had  seen 
something  of  what  Charker  could  do.  He 
knew  what  he  knew,  and  the  pitiful  stories 
had  made  him  pitiless.  ' '  I  think,  purely  on 
supposition,  that  Bendis  knows  Charker 
well  enough  to  have  you  discharged. 
Charker  must  be  rich.  Rich  men  know 
each  other  in  places  like  this.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  that  is  my  idea.  I  want  to  ask 
Allen  if  he  knows  Campbell." 

' '  Then  that  was  your  detective  who  came 
to  see  him  to-night?"  said  the  girl  sud- 
denly. 


170  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"I  should  not  wonder." 

"I  knew  he  was  a  detective,"  she  cried 
in  relief. 

"Well,  since  you  don't  know  Campbell, 
I'm  off.  How  did  the  work  go  to-day,  Miss 
Sullivan?" 

"Fine,  Mr.  Brice,"  her  eyes  sparkling. 
' '  Oh,  it  is  fine  to  be  helping  people  instead 
of  hurting  them. ' ' 

"The  real  secret  of  helping  ourselves, 
Miss  Sullivan.  'Do  unto  others  as  you 
v/'ould  they  should  do  unto  you.'  That  is 
an  old  saying,  Miss  Sullivan." 

"But  mighty  pretty  for  its  age,  Mr. 
Brice." 

Brice  laughed  and  lost  ten  years. 

"Well,  good-night.  Let  us  pray  that  we 
get  Charker."  The  ten  years  returned. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Brice."  She  closed 
the  outer  door.  "I  get  a  better  opinion  of 
money  every  time  I  meet  him,"  thought 
Miss  Sullivan. 

The  little  lamplit  room  invited  to  do- 
mesticity and  placidity.  She  thought  of  her 
years  in  the  bleak,  mistrustful,  communal 


THE  BAWLEROUT  171 

life  of  boarding  houses.  A  feeling  of 
strange,  tingling  happiness  was  upon  her. 
She  looked  with  affection  ahout  the  little 
room,  at  the  sideboard  where  the  few  pieces 
of  plated  ware  and  the  fine  old  silver  teapot 
with  the  crest  twinkled  in  family  friendship 
at  her,  at  the  big  clock  which  always 
seemed  to  be  grinning,  at  the  work  basket 
under  the:  lamp,  at  the  sock  with  the  needle 
still  in  it  and  the  white  of  the  china  darning 
egg  showing  through  the  hole  in  the  toe. 
The  sock  and  the  hole  in  it  gave  her  a  hu- 
morous, motherly  feeling.  How  like  chil- 
dren men  were,  stubbing  through  things, 
and  continuing  to  stub  until  some  woman 
helped  them  out. 

She  took  up  the  sock,  laughed,  put  it 
down — frowned,  took  it  up  again,  sat  down, 
and  began  to  mend  it.  The  frown  de- 
parted. A  little  smile  came,  making  ten- 
derly whimsical  the  firm  red  lips.  Her 
head  with  its  glorious  burden  bent  over 
the  work.  The  lamplight  took  live  little 
flights  through  wave  and  curl  and  ripple. 
The  silver  twinkled  at  the  bent  head,  the 


172  THE  BAWLEROUT 

old  clock  grinned.  All  the  inanimate 
things  in  the  little  room  became  animated 
as  if  by  some  merry  secret. 

Working,  thinking,  singing  to  herself 
while  she  rocked,  the  girl  did  not  hear  a 
key  in  the  front  door,  did  not  look  up  at 
the  whisper  of  skirts,  then: 

"We  found  out  that  one  of  the  Rogers 
Brothers  was  too  sick  to  go  to  Africa,  so 
we  came  home,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Allen. 

Miss  Sullivan's  head  flew  up,  her  eyes 
flew  wide.  There  in  the  doorway,  grin- 
ning and  quite  joyous  in  greeting,  stood 
Mr.  Richard  Allen.  Beyond  him,  eyes  riv- 
eted as  if  by  steel  and  fire  upon  the  sock 
in  her  hand,  the  sock  that  by  no  possibility 
could  be  anything  but  the  sock  of  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Allen,  stood  the  fair  Miss  Downs. 

Miss  Sullivan  sprang  up,  dropping  the 
sock  on  the  floor.  Wave  on  wave  of  color 
rushed  and  seared  over  her  face. 

"Allow  me,"  Mr.  Richard  Allen  ad- 
vanced and  picked  up  the  sock.  "You 
dropped  this."  There  are  times  when  a 
woman  longs  to  beat  the  sense  into  a  man's 


THE  BAWLEROUT  173 

head  by  beating  his  brains  out.  Very 
courteously  he  restored  the  sock  to  the 
basket. 

"Mr.  Allen,"  said  Miss  Downs. 

"What  is  it,  Edith?"  said  Mr.  Allen. 

"Is  the  cab  waiting  yet!" 

"Why,  no.     Why?" 

"Find  another.  Put  me  in  it.  Good- 
night." There  was  a  whirl  of  the  cream 
cloak,  a  flash  of  silver,  and  the  doorway 
was  empty. 

"What — !"  Mr.  Allen's  mouth  was 
open;  his  eyes,  staring,  sought  Miss  Sul- 
livan's. 

"Go  after  her!  Oh,  you  idiot,  you 
you—  Her  wrath  was  too  much.  She 
ran  and  gave  him  a  push  toward  the  door. 

Still  dazed,  he  ran  for  the  street.  Miss 
Sullivan  ran  into  the  kitchen.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  was  back,  stabbing  on  her  hat 
with  horrible  disregard  of  the  fact  that  a 
brain  is  not  a  pin  cushion. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Allen  burst  into  the  room. 
He  was  furious. 

"She   is    crazy,"   he    sputtered.     "She 


174  THE  BAWLEROUT 

found  the  cab  we  came  back  in,  hopped 
into  it  and  banged  the  door  in  my  face. 
Well,  let  her  cool  off.  Why  are  you  go- 
ing?" 

"Because  I  want  to,  that's  why,"  she 
cried,  scarlet,  furious,  ready  for  the  mount- 
ing tears. 

* '  Come  now,  it 's  early.     Sit  down. ' ' 

' '  I  won 't  sit  down.  Get  out  of  my  way. 
I  am  going  home." 

"Aw — just  a  little  while.  I  want  some 
advice. ' ' 

"I  won't  give  you  advice.  I  won't  stay. 
I  will  go." 

"You  told  mother  you  were  going  to  stay 
all  evening." 

"I  don't  care  what  I  told  her.  Get  out 
of  my  way." 

"What  in  Heaven  is  the  matter  with 
everybody  to-night?"  cried  the  despairing 
Mr.  Allen. 

"Oh,  me !"  cried  a  frantic  little  old  lady, 
fluttering  in  like  an  alarmed  humming-bird. 
' '  It  will  all  come  through  the  ceiling  in  the 
parlor  and  the  plaster  will  fall!" 


THE  BAWLEROUT  175 

"What?" 

"What?" 

"The  water  in  the  bath-tub.  Dick,  I 
turned  it  on  for  your  bath,  and  I  can't  turn 
it  off.  Oh,  me!  run!" 

He  ran. 

"Are  you  going?"  said  the  little  old 
lady. 

"I  have  to,  dear." 

"I  wish  you  would  stay.  That  man — 
I  am  afraid  he  will  come  back." 

"Dear,  he  only  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Al- 
len on  some  business,  and  besides,  your 
son  is  here  now." 

"I  know — but  I  feel  afraid  to-night — 
afraid  of  something — I  shall  feel  better  if 
you  will  stay.  Won't  you  stay  a  little 
while,  my  dear?" 

The  girl  hesitated,  frowned,  took  off  her 
hat,  then  smiled  at  the  mother.  "I'll 
stay." 

' '  Thank  you,  my  dear. ' ' 

They  sat  down  at  the  table.  The  little 
old  lady  began  to  sew.  Miss  Sullivan  sat 
very  stiff  in  her  rocker.  "I  won't  speak 


176  THE  BAWLEROUT 

to  him,"  she  thought  with  an  angry  blush. 

"It's  all  right  now.  I  fixed  it,"  came  a 
hearty  voice.  He  entered,  saw  her, 
grabbed  a  chair  and  sat  down  before  her. 
"Look  here,"  he  bent  forward  eagerly, 
"I  have  been  thinking  all  evening  of  what 
you  said.  It  is  a  pity  for  a  girl  like  you 
to  have  such  wrong  ideas  of  things.  As 
soon  as  you  meet  the  man  you  love  you'll 
know  it.  People  in  love  always  know  it 
right  away." 

Miss  Sullivan  stiffened  consciously. 
The  clock  grinned  more  broadly  than  ever. 


XI 


4  4  T  TELL  you  that  people  as  soon  as 
JL  they  love  each  other  know  it." 
There  was  no  difference  in  the  remark  from 
that  in  the  last  chapter,  but  this  difference 
in  the  room :  Miss  Sullivan,  no  longer  erect, 
was  leaning  eagerly  forward,  ready  to  have 
the  last  word  when  Mr.  Allen  should  finish. 
Mr.  Allen  was  leaning  eagerly  forward, 
ready  to  have  no  mercy  on  that  last  word 
as  soon  as  it  should  be  spoken.  The  little 
old  lady  was  fast  asleep.  Head  on  breast, 
mouth  slightly  open,  and  a  sound  that  a 
humming-bird  might  make  when  it  snored, 
showed  the  condition  of  the  little  old  lady. 
The  clock,  grinning  cheerfully,  showed  that 
the  time  had  gone  two  hours  nearer  mid- 
night since  the  argument  began. 

"That's  how  it  is."  Mr.  Allen  banged 
his  fist  into  his  palm. 

The  bang  of  his  fist  struck  open  his 
mother's  eyes. 

177 


178  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"Land  of  love!"  exclaimed  the  little  old 
lady,  sitting  up  startled,  and  more  closely 
than  ever  suggesting1  the  flutters  of  a  hum- 
ming-bird. "I  have  been  asleep.  What 
time  is  it,  children  1 ' ' 

"Good  gracious!"  "Oh,  mercy!"  said 
the  children.  "I  had  not  any  idea  that  it 
was  so  late,"  they  added  to  each  other. 

"I  must  go  right  home."  Miss  Sullivan 
sprang  up. 

"I'll  go  with  you."  Mr.  Allen  sprang 
up. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!"  said  Miss  Sullivan. 

"Indeed,  I  must!"  said  Mr.  Allen. 

"Nonsense." 

"Not  at  all." 

"I  always  go  by  myself." 

"It  is  too  late  for  you  to  be  unescorted." 

"Fiddlesticks!  I  have  gone  around 
alone  ever  since  I  was  born." 

"Then  you  are  old  enough  to  stop  it." 
Mr.  Allen  left  the  room. 

"Good-night,  dear."  Miss  Sullivan 
kissed  the  half-awakened  humming-bird. 
"Tell  your  son  good-night  for  me." 


THE  BAWLEROUT  179 

"I  am  going  with  you,"  said  the  son,  en- 
tering with  overcoat  and  hat. 

"I  shall  not  let  you,"  said  Miss  Sullivan, 
confronting  Mr.  Allen. 

"I  shall  not  let  you  go  alone,"  said  Mr. 
Allen,  confronting  Miss  Sullivan. 

"Oh,  me!  is  that  the  bell?"  said  the 
humming-bird.  Suddenly  she  was  a  broad 
awake  little  mother  bird  and  all  in  a  piti- 
ful twitter.  "It  is  that  man.  Oh,  Dick, 
don't  go  to  the  door."  Her  son  had  gone, 
however.  "Oh,  it  is  that  man,"  fluttered 
the  mother  bird. 

"Silly  little  lady.  Why  are  you 
afraid?" 

"I  don't  know — but  I  am."  She  trem- 
bled exactly  as  a  feathered  mother  when 
danger  comes  creeping  along  the  limb  on 
which  swings  the  home  nest. 

"Mother,"  her  son  suddenly  stood  in 
the  doorway,  very  grave  of  face,  "may  I 
have  this  room?  Mr.  Downs  is  here.  He 
wants  to  see  me  alone  at  once.  Miss  Sul- 
livan, take  mother  upstairs.  You  can  go 
that  way. ' '  He  indicated  the  door  leading 


180  THE  BAWLEROUT 

into  the  kitchen  and  went  back  down  the 
hall. 

Drawn  away  in  the  girl's  arms  went  the 
mother,  looking  toward  the  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  hall. 

Dick  Allen  reappeared  in  the  doorway. 
From  behind  him  there  crept  into  the  room 
a  man,  old,  gray,  withered,  haggard,  and 
tremulous  of  hand  and  lip.  The  lamp- 
thrown  shadow  following  him  along  the 
wall  seemed  like  the  embodiment  of  pur- 
suing Fear.  This  black  shadow  of  Fear 
was  reflected  in  his  eyes  of  the  white-faced 
girl  who  followed  her  father  into  the  room, 
the  gay,  flashing  silver  on  her  garments 
now  mocking  at  the  terror  in  her  set  face. 
The  lamplight  threw  high  on  the  wall  the 
shadow  of  her  plumes,  making  them  look 
like  that  vanity  of  death,  the  plumes  of  a 
hearse. 

"What  has  happened?"  Allen  closed 
the  door. 

"I  won't  tell  it  before  her,"  the  old  man 
suddenly  screamed.  "I  told  her  I  did  it — 
but  I  did  not  tell  her  why — I  won't  tell 


THE  BAWLEBOUT  181 

why  I  did  it  with  her  here.  I  thought  they 
had  come  for  me — and  I  told  her.  She 
would  come  with  me,"  his  shrunken  chest 
was  laboring  hideously,  "but  I  won't  tell  it 
before  her." 

"Go  in  here,  Edith. ' '  Allen  opened  the 
door  to  the  parlor.  She  came  slowly  to- 
ward him,  looking  into  his  face.  At  every 
halting  step  the  lamplight  ran  mockingly 
through  the  flashing  silver.  At  the  door 
she  stopped. 

"Dick,  save  him!  You  shall!  If  you 
don't  I  will  hate  you — hate  you!"  With 
a  whimper  she  covered  her  face.  ' '  Father 
— my  poor  old  father ! ' '  The  silver  flashed 
again  as  she  went  into  the  darkness.  He 
closed  the  door. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Downs?" 

As  if  the  door  which  shut  out  the  sight 
of  his  daughter  had  shut  within  him  an- 
other door  through  which  his  soul  could 
be  seen  writhing  in  torment,  the  gray  man 
grew  quiet.  He  was  once  more  the  husk 
of  a  body.  The  man,  and  the  man's  soul, 
had  gone  from  that  husk  with  the  closing 


182  THE  BAWLEBOUT 

of  the  door  which  had  hid  his  daughter. 
He  plucked  at  the  cords  of  his  lean  throat 
and  looked  at  the  other  from  eyes  that 
seemed  only  sockets  under  white  brows. 

' '  My  nerves  gave  way. ' '  Even  his  voice 
was  colorless,  gray  and  dead,  the  husk  of 
a  man's  voice.  " There  was  really  no  rea- 
son for  going  to  pieces.  Nothing  has  been 
done  that  cannot  be  mended.  I  broke  to- 
night when  she  came  home.  For  months  I 
have  been  expecting  that  at  any  sudden 
shock  I  would  break.  I  did  to-night.  They 
had  just  told  me  that  two  strange  men  were 
downstairs  waiting  to  see  me.  I  thought 
that  they  were — I  have — been  waiting  for 
a  long  time  expecting — to  be  told  any  night 
that — men  had  come  for  me.  And  then — 
just  at  that  moment — she  came  sobbing  into 
my  room.  I  remember  that  she  was  say- 
ing that  she  could  not  marry  you  now — she 
said  something  about  disgrace — and — my 
God!"  he  whispered,  "I  thought  that  she 
came  from  the  men  downstairs — that  she 
knew  everything.  And  I  begged  her  to  for- 
give me.  I  begged  her  for  mercy — I — I — " 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  183 

He  plucked  at  his  lean  throat  again.  "I 
thought  she  knew — I  told  her  I  had  done 
it."  He  beat  his  hands  together.  For  a 
moment  the  doors  of  his  soul's  inferno 
stood  wide.  "And  then — !"  The  doors 
closed.  The  fires  from  his  inner  hell  died 
from  his  eyes  and  they  were  empty,  like  the 
eyesockets  of  ai  skull,  under  the  white  hair. 
"I  found  that  she  did  not  know — that  she 
had  simply  come  to  tell  me  that  you  had 
treated  her  badly  to-night.  But  it  was  too 
late — I  had  told  her  I  was  a  thief. ' ' 

The  word  seemed  to  strike  the  young  man 
back  against  the  wall  as  if  by  physical  im- 
pact. His  eyes  had  the  dazed  shock  in 
them  which  comes  from  a  violent  blow. 

"Those  men—  '  he  said  at  last,  "you 
said  that  there  were  strange  men  down- 
stairs waiting  for  you?" 

"They  were  not  what  I  had  thought. 
They  had  come  from  the  land  company 
which  is  going  to  fail." 

"My  God!"  said  Allen  slowly,  "oh,  my 
God!  Mr.  Downs!" 

"Allen,"    on    the    wall    the    crouching 


184  THE  BAWLEROUT 

shadow  of  the  old  man  came  creeping 
nearer  to  the  boy  as  if  the  personified  Fear 
sought  to  clutch  him,  "for  weeks  I  have 
been  going  to  tell  you,  to  throw  myself  on 
your  mercy.  I  want  your  help,  Allen," 
the  shadow  came  creeping  along  the  wall, 
very  near  now, ' '  I  want  to  throw  myself  on 
your  mercy." 

The  dazed  young  face  looked  at  the  gray 
old  one. 

"You  are  the  teller,  I  am  the  cashier," 
said  the  thief. 

The  young  man  shrank,  weak  and  sick 
from  sudden  nausea. 

"Between  us  we  can  cover  this  up  for 
years,"  said  the  thief. 

"No."  Allen's  face  reddened  with  an- 
ger. "I  won't  be  a  thief." 

"You  can't  refuse.  I  am  the  father  of 
the  girl  you  are  going  to  marry." 

The  young  man's  face  went  white  again 
and  he  pressed  back  against  the  wall  as  if 
shrinking  from  some  physical  contamina- 
tion. 

"You  ask  me  to  be  a  thief?" 


THE  BAWLEROUT  185 

"No  one  will  ever  know." 

' '  What  if  they  don 't  I  I  would  be  a  tfiief 
just  the  same." 

"No  one  will  know.  I  will  make  money 
again  and  put  back  what  I  have  taken. 
I've  had  bad  luck.  Next  time  it  will  be  dif- 
ferent. I  saved  you  from  Charker's. 
Save  me  now."  The  old  hand  caught  the 
young  arm.  ' i  Listen,  Dick ! ' '  His  fingers, 
like  the  claws  of  a  starved  bird,  were  clutch- 
ing and  clutching  at  the  boy's  arm  as  he 
spoke.  "It  is  for  her — for  her.  But  for 
that  I  would  kill  myself.  But  I  can't  leave 
her  to  be  pointed  out  as  the  daughter  of  a 
thief.  And  you,  the  man  she  is  going  to 
marry,  you  can't  stamp  me,  her  father— 
Don't  you  see?  It's  for  her,  and  it  all  rests 
with  you.  You'll  not  see  her  pointed  out 
as  the  daughter  of  a  thief — "  His  nerves 
snapped  and  he  screamed  hideously. 

"Hush !"  The  boy  caught  him  with  one 
hand  and  closed  the  screaming  mouth  with 
the  other,  glancing,  terrified,  at  the  ceiling 
as  he  did  so.  * '  Hush, — mother  is  upstairs ! 
You  will  frighten  her. ' '  He  jerked  roughly 


186  THE  BAWLEROUT 

away  from  the  clawing  fingers  at  the  new 
and  sudden  thought.  "What  of  her?" 
His  low  voice  rang  with  angry  pity  as  he 
stared  at  the  wreck  before  him.  "This 
will  be  found  out  as  sure  as  the  sun  rises. 
You  can't  hide  it.  Shall  I  kill  my  mother! 
Shall  I?  Shall  I  kill  her!"  The  anger 
went  from  his  face,  but  pity  remained  as  he 
said,  "How  much  have  you  taken!" 

"Ten  thousand  dollars." 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

"Allen,"  he  clutched  him  again,  "I  did 
it  for  her — Edith — the  girl  you  love.  Al- 
len, all  my  life  millions  have  passed  under 
my  hands,  and  I  have  never  had  the  money 
to  give  her  even  a  bit  of  the  things  she 
loves.  I  have  had  my  ambitions,  but  in  all 
my  life  no  man's  eye  has  looked  on  me  with 
respect.  I 'have  always  been  a  drudge — 
nothing  more.  When  she  was  little  she 
looked  up  to  me  as  a  child  does  to  its 
father.  Then  she  grew  up,  and  she  saw  me 
as  I  was,  a  drudge,  a  failure.  All  my  life 
I  have  struggled  with  poverty  as  I  counted 
other  men's  money.  A  bit  of  that  money, 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  187 

just  a  bit,  would  protect  her  when  I  should 
be  dead.  And  I  could  not  save  even  that 
bit  for  her.  She  was  beautiful,  Allen,  and 
I  would  have  to  die  and  leave  her  to  go  out 
in  the  world  and  fight  it,  and  I  should  be 
dead — dead!  Don't  you  understand,  I 
would  be  dead!"  He  shook  the  arm  he 
held  in  his  hysterical  fury.  All  the  justi- 
fication that  he  had  pleaded  before  the  bar 
of  his  soul  in  sleepless  nights  now  poured 
frantically  from  his  lips. 

" There  I  stood  counting  other  men's 
money,  getting  old,  seeing  her  grow 
prettier  and  prettier,  and  more  helpless, 
and  knowing  that  she  would  have  nothing 
when  I  was  dead."  Fate,  who  loves  chil- 
dren and  hates  those  who  wrong  them, 
could  not  have  summed  up  its  sentence  for 
the  way  the  Downs  had  treated  their  child 
better  than  in  those  words  of  the  father 
who  had  stolen  for  the  daughter  he  had 
raised  to  be  "helpless." 

"I  risked  all  that  I  had  saved  in  the 
land  option.  It  was  only  three  hundred 
dollars,  and  it  made  three  thousand.  I 


188  THE  BAWLEROUT 

meant  to  use  that  money  to  get  more. 
But  she  wanted  the  pretty  things,  they 
were  life  to  her — I  just  hungered  to  give 
them  to  her — and  I  gave  them  to  her.  I 
saw  for  the  first  time  in  my  child's  eyes 
that  she  respected  me.  She  loved  me  al- 
ways, but  I  wanted,  starved,  for  respect. 
She  plead  for  more  and  more  of  the 
money  until — until  there  was  not  much 
left  for  another  try.  But  there  under 
my  hands,  all  around  me,  was  money, 
stacks  of  money.  I  said  that  only  a  little 
bit  of  it  would  give  me  the  chance  to 
leave  her  rich,  protected,  safe.  If  three 
hundred  could  make  three  thousand,  what 
could—  He  struggled,  choking.  "I 
took  a  few  thousands — meaning  to  put 
them  back.  The  boom  was  failing.  I  did 
not  know  it.  I  took  more  to  save  what  I 
had  taken.  And  the  boom  failed." 

His  eyes  left  the  other  man's  face.  His 
hysterical  strength  was  failing.  At  every 
further  word  he  seemed  to  wither  back  into 
the  husk  of  a  man  who  had  shriveled  away 
counting  the  money  of  others. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  189 

"I  have  been  staying  late  at  the  bank, 
trying  to  hide  things,  to  cover  them  up 
from  you.  I  knew  that  you  would  soon 
discover  what  I  had  done.  Each  day  I 
meant  to  tell  you,  to  ask  you  to  stand  by 
me.  Each  day  I  put  it  off  till  the  next. 
But  to-night,  when  I  told  her  everything, 
she—" 

"I  made  him  tell  you."  She  stood  in 
the  doorway,  her  face  grown  sharp  and 
old,  hard  eyes  on  her  lover's.  Then  sud- 
denly those  eyes  became  tender  and  plead- 
ing. She  ran  to  him,  pushed  her  father 
away,  and  catching  her  lover's  hand, 
caressed  it.  "Dick,  dear,  you  will?  You 
will,  won't  you,  Dick?  Think,  Dick,  you 
will  be  shielding  me. ' ' 

"It  can't  be  hidden,"  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"There  is  not  a  chance  in  the  world.  I 
am  not  thinking  of  myself  but  of  mother. ' ' 

"Why  should  you  think  of  her  and  not 
of  me?  You  have  no  right  to  think  of  her 
before  me." 

"Oh,  God,  is  there  no  way  out  of  this 
horror?" 


190  THE  BAWLEROUT 

"Yes,  there  is,  Dick.  Save  father. 
Why,  your  old  bank  has  lots  of  money.  It 
will  never  even  miss  it.  Think,  Dick,"  her 
voice  rose  hysterically,  "they  will  say  that 
I  was  the  cause  of  what  father  did.  Yes, 
I  have  been  listening.  They  will  point  at 
me.  Every  time  I  wear  a  dress  they  will 
wonder  if  the  money  for  it  was  stolen. ' ' 

The  father  stumbled  into  a  chair  and 
laid  his  desolate  face  in  his  thin  hands. 

"Edith,"  whispered  the  boy,  sick, 
stunned,  with  horror. 

"You  shall  do  it,  I  tell  you.  Look  at 
him."  She  frantically  shook  the  arm  she 
held.  ' l  He  saved  you.  How  can  you  even 
hesitate?  And  you  need  not  think  you 
were  not  in  it,  too.  The  money  you  paid 
your  debt  with  was  stolen  from  the  bank. ' ' 

"What  is  that?"  He  tore  hisi  arm  from 
her  and  striding  to  the  bowed  man  stood 
over  him.  "Is  that  true?" 

The  old  man  nodded. 

The  boy  turned  his  back  on  them  both, 
and,  fingers  resting  on  the  table,  looked 
down  at  the  lamp  shade.  There  was  a  lit- 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  191 

tie  blue  flower  on  that  shade.  He  won- 
dered why  he  had  not  noticed  it  before. 
The  same  shade  had  been  on  that  lamp  for 
years — for  years.  Funny  that  he  had  not 
noticed  that  flower.  ' '  And  I  went  through 
hell  to  keep  from  stealing  it,"  he  said 
softly. 

She  followed  him,  caught  his  hand  again 
and  fondled  it.  The  upward  glow  from 
the  table  modeled  her  haggard  prettiness 
with  fantastic  reversed  lights. 

"You  see,  Dick,  if  you  don't  do  as  he 
says,  your  mother  will  suffer  the  very 
thing  you  are  trying  to  shield  her  from, 
because  no  one  will  believe  that  you  were 
not  taking  that  money  from  father  to  keep 
quiet."  Desperation,  terror,  and  anger 
that  he  should  hesitate  to  save  her  made 
her  smile  at  the  trap  in  which  he  was 
caught. 

At  that  smile  he  drew  his  arm  from  her 
touch  with  a  shudder.  Her  eyes  instantly 
grew  soft  once  more. 

"Think,  Dick,  if  you  do  this,  you  and 
father  can  hide  it  for  years.  Your  mother 


192  THE  BAWLEROUT 

can't  live  very  long  anyway.  She  will 
never  know.  Be  sensible.  I  told  father 
that  you  would  do  this  for  me.  Why,  you 
ought  to  be  thinking  of  me  now  and  not  of 
your  mother.  If  this  comes  out  I  will 
never  hold  up  my  head  in  this  town  again. 
You  have  to  protect  me.  I  demand  it. 
You  think  that  it  will  kill  your  mother. 
It  won't.  But  it  will  kill  me  if  you  don't 
do  as  father  says — it  will — it  will ! ' ' 

Ashen  and  silent  he  stood  as  she  caressed 
and  fawned  on  him,  his  eyes  wide,  staring 
dull  and  sightless  at  the  flower  on  the 
shade  of  the  lamp. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  No  one 
heard  it.  The  door  opened. 

''Mr.  Allen,"  the  voice  of  the  girl  who 
opened  the  door  was  very  quiet,  but  it 
made  everyone  look  at  her.  Even  the 
gray-faced  man  took  his  thin  hands  from 
his  eyes.  "There  are  two  men  here  ask- 
ing for  you.  I  think  that  you  had  better 
see  them." 

"They  have  come  for  me — it  is  me  they 
want,"  the  old  man  screamed.  His 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  193 

daughter  ran  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
about  his  narrow  shoulders. 

A  man  thrust  his  way  into  the  room,  a 
thickset  man  in  thick  clothes,  the  man 
whom  the  mother's  instinct  had  told  her 
to  fear.  The  lamplight  reached  into  the 
hall  and  touched  the  white  shirt  front  of 
a  second  man. 

"I  am  an  officer  of  the  law,"  said  the 
man  who  had  entered  first. 

The  old  man  crushed  his  body  against 
the  gleaming  silver  of  his  daughter's  side, 
the  silver  which  typified  the  price  for 
which  he  had  become  a  thief. 

"Which  is  Richard  Allen?"  demanded 
the  officer. 

''The  young  man,"  said  the  voice  of  the 
president  of  the  Tobacco  National  from 
the  hall. 

"Then,  Richard  Allen,  I  arrest  you  in 
the  name  of  the  law  for  embezzlement." 
And  heavy  as  Pate  his  hand  fell  on  his 
prisoner's  shoulders. 

' '  Hush ! "  It  was  the  tall  girl  who  com- 
manded. "Come  in,  Mr.  Bendis."  He 


194  THE  BAWLEROUT 

entered  and  she  softly  closed  the  door. 
"Be  quiet  everybody,  please.  His  mother 
is  upstairs  listening. ' ' 

They  were  very  quiet  at  her  words. 
The  lamp  threw  long  motionless  shadows 
all  around  the  walls.  They  had  been  com- 
ing a  long  time,  those  shadows,  ever  since 
the  first  one  of  the  boy  had  fallen  on  the 
ground-glass  of  Charker's  door.  Slowly, 
but  surely,  they  had  been  coming  to  group 
themselves,  here  in  the  quiet  little  room, 
about  the  shadow  of  the  white-lipped 
young  man  beside  the  lamp,  with  that  other 
shadow  of  a  man's  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
Charker's  shadows  often  end  like  that,  the 
shadow  of  a  man  with  another's  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

Out  somewhere  in  the  night  a  late  trol- 
ley passed.  Its  hum  was  loud  in  the  room. 

The  first  shadow  to  move  was  that  of 
the  tall  girl  as  it  followed  her  across  the 
room  and  mingled  with  that  of  the  boy. 
She  stood  before  him  and  looked  straight 
into  his  desperate,  white-lipped  misery 
with  her  brave,  pitying  eyes. 


THE  BAWLEBOUT  195 

"Boy,"  she  said  quietly.  It  was  only  a 
word,  but  in  it  was  all  that  a  man  hun- 
gers to  hear  when  Shame 's  hand  is  on  his 
shoulder.  No  aristocrat  could  have  been 
in  better  control  of  her  emotions  than  this 
girl  of  Bed  February's  battle,  or  looked 
more  the  gentlewoman.  In  fact  it  was  the 
girl  of  Bed  February's,  and  not  the  one  of 
the  assembly  list,  who  acted  as  a  class  is 
taught  to  act  when  the  tumbrels  of  Fate 
wait  at  the  door.  So  behaved  this  girl  at 
the  moment  when  the  pain  in  her  heart 
showed  her  that  she  had  been  loving  with- 
out knowing,  that  the  man  of  whom  she 
had  dreamed  had  come  into  the  shelter  of 
her  heart  before  she  knew  that  his  hand 
was  on  its  latch  string.  And  he  who  had 
loved,  without  knowing  that  he  loved, 
looked  into  the  brave,  true  eyes,  and  the 
knowledge  that  had  come  too  late  was  in 
his  own. 

"I  knew  that  you  would  not  believe  it," 
he  said.  i 

There  was  a  sharp  little  cry  from  the 
girl  in  the  silver  embroidery.  The  eyes 


196  THE  BAWLEROUT 

under  the  wide  plumes  lost  their  terror 
and  became  hard. 

''Nor  will  anyone  else  that  knows  you 
believe  it,"  said  the  girl,  who  would  let 
herself  be  known  only  as  Miss  Sullivan. 

Her  words  cut  the  bonds  that  had  bound 
the  shadows.  The  officer  stepped  back. 
Immaculate,  conservative,  and  cold,  the 
president  advanced. 

"Allen,  this  is  very  sad.  I  don't  won- 
der that  it  affects  you,  Mr.  Downs.  It  af- 
fects me  more  than  I  can  say. ' '  And  also 
more  than  he  could  look  apparently.  ' l  Al- 
len, as  president  of  the  bank  I  came  to  hear 
without  a  moment's  loss  of  time,  the  ex- 
tent of  the  bank's  losses.  How  much  have 
you  stolen  ? ' ' 

"You  have  not  stolen  a  dollar.  I  want 
you  to  hear  me  say  that  before  you  open 
your  lips, ' '  said  the  woman  who  loved  him. 
She  spoke  as  if  they  were  alone  and  in  all 
the  world  there  were  no  shadows. 

1 '  How  much  have  you  stolen  ? ' ' 

Silence  except  for  the  heavy  breathing 
of  the  old  man.  The  boy  took  his  gaze 


THE  BAWLEROUT  197 

from  the  woman  who  loved  and  believed, 
the  woman  he  loved,  and  looked  at  the  girl 
he  had  thought  he  loved.  Nothing  but  ruin 
now.  No  chance  of  saving  the  mother  who 
was  listening  upstairs.  No  matter  how 
low  the  voices  in  that  room,  other  voices 
would  carry  to  her  the  message.  No  one 
would  believe  that  he  had  not  known,  and 
taken  his  price  for  silence.  The  old  man 
had  saved  him.  That  was  true  in  a  way. 
His  daughter  was  the  woman  he  had  sworn 
to  protect.  There  would  be  only  one  to 
pay  now.  His  mother  could  not  be  spared 
the  death  blow.  Only  one  to  pay.  One 
must  pay.  He  could  not  save  himself,  he 
could  only  ruin  more. 

"There  is  no  use  in  this  silence."  The 
president  leaned  across  the  table.  His 
shadow  on  the  wall  looked  exactly  like 
that  of  a  great  crouching  cat.  "Ever  since 
that  disgraceful  scene  in  the  bank,  when 
the  woman  came — "  evidently  the  presi- 
dent did  not  recognize  the  tall,  still  girl  as 
the.bawlerout,  "ever  since  then  I  have  sus- 
pected you.  In  my  duty  to  the  bank  I  had 


198  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

you  put  under  espionage.  I  discovered 
that  you  had  borrowed  on  your  salary,  and 
that  a  few  days  after  that  scene  you  paid 
the  loan.  The  loan  was  too  large  for  you 
to  have  saved  it  from  your  salary.  You 
simply  could  not  have  done  it  and  lived  at 
all  with  your  mother  dependent  on  you. 
Where  did  you  get  the  money  with  which 
you  paid  that  debt,  Allen?" 

Very  still  were  the  shadows,  very  still 
those  of  the  bowed  man  and  the  girl  in 
the  plumed  hat. 

"Boy,  why  don't  you  speak!  You  have 
only  to  speak  and  clear  yourself, ' '  said  the 
woman  who  loved  him. 

He  looked  from  her  to  the  old  man  cow- 
ering against  the  silver-shot  garments. 
At  the  girl  in  those  garments  he  looked  no 
more. 

"Speak,  Allen,"  said  the  president. 
"Answer  me." 

But  Allen  did  not  answer. 

"There  is  no  use  in  this  silence.  I  had 
the  books  examined  privately.  But  they 
did  not  reveal  anything.  The  theft  had 
been  carefully  concealed.  I  knew  that  the 


THE  BAWLEBOUT  199 

bank  had  been  robbed,  but  I  waited.  To- 
day I  discovered  that  a  certain  account  had 
been  robbed  of  several  thousands  which  I 
personally  knew  had  been  deposited.  A 
second  examination  of  the  books  is  now  in 
progress  at  the  bank  to-night.  But  I  must 
know  now  how  much  you  have  taken  with- 
out waiting.  Answer  me,  Allen." 

"Dick,"  the  tall  girl  used  his  first  name 
unconsciously  as  she  searched  the  white 
young  face,  her  own  face  growing  into  an 
agony  of  anxiety  for  him  to  speak.  He 
turned  from  her  with  a  rough  movement 
of  pain  and  nodded  to  the  officer  who 
stepped  forward  in  response.  The  lamp- 
light glittered  on  drawn  handcuffs. 

"No !"  Her  cry  was  not  loud,  but  rang 
with  pitiful  terror. 

"Boy — boy,  dear,"  she  caught  his  shoul- 
der and  turned  him  toward  her,  her  face 
all  passionate  pleading. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  Her 
eyes  did  not  waver.  Then  he  smiled. 

At  the  smile  she  became  desperate, 
angry,  but  not  with  him,  for  him.  Her 
hand  fell  from  his  shoulder.  She  searched 


200  THE  BAWLEEOUT 

from  face  to  face  in  her  helpless  despair. 
At  the  other  girl  her  eyes  halted. 

"Make  him  speak.  Don't  you  see  what 
he  is  doing?"  The  two  women  drew 
nearer  together,  both  faces  set  for  a  strug- 
gle. "You  know  that  he  is  not  a  thief. 
Make  him  speak." 

Under  the  plumed  hat  the  face  was  set 
pitilessly. 

"I  don't  see  what  right  you  have  even 
to  be  in  this  room  now,"  said  Edith  Downs. 

The  other  girl  held  out  imploring  hands. 
"He  is  g~oing  to  be  your  husband.  Make 
him  speak.  Tell  him  he  has  no  right  to 
shield  anyone.  Make  him  say  who  it  is  he 
is  shielding.  Make  him  tell. ' ' 

Edith  Downs  drew  her  cloak  about  her. 
The  lamplight  flashed  on  the  hard  glitter 
of  her  rings.  Those  jewels  caught  the 
other  girl's  eyes.  She  looked  at  the 
jewels,  at  the  silver  embroidery,  into  the 
girl's  face,  and  from  that  face  to  the  old 
cashier.  Edith  Downs  sprang  between 
that  glance  and  her  broken  father.  The 
other  woman  turned  to  the  president. 


THE  BAWLEKOUT  201 

"If  lie  won't  answer,  I  will.  You  say 
he  stole.  What,  then,  has  he  done  with 
those  thousands?  Does  this  house  show 
it?  Look  at  that  frayed  sleeve,"  she 
pointed  to  the  shabby  coat.  "Does  a 
thief  go  like  that?  Eagged — in  a  bank? 
He  never  stole  your  money.  I  know  it. ' ' 

1 1  May  I  ask  who  you  are  ? ' '  inquired  the 
president. 

1 1  If  you  had  the  habit  of  looking  in  peo- 
ple's  faces  you  would  know."  She  bent 
toward  him,  her  hands  resting  on  the  table. 
"I  am  the  girl  who  bawled  you  out." 

' '  Oh,  my  God ! ' '  cried  the  president,  re- 
coiling. But,  being  on  firm  ground  now, 
he  soon  drew  himself  up.  ' '  Allen, ' '  he  said 
icily,  "this  crime  of  yours  is  a  poor  return 
for  all  I  have  done  for  you.  This  would 
probably  not  have  come  to  my  knowledge 
for  some  time  if  you  had  not  robbed  an  ac- 
count of  which  I  know  every  item  as  I  do 
my  own.  You  might  have  spared  the  poor 
demented  man  whose  estate  is  under  my 
guardianship.  Of  course,  the  bank  will 
stand  his  loss,  but  the  principle  is  the 


202  THE  BAWLEROUT 

same.  Officer,"  the  officer  nodded  and  ad- 
vanced again.  "Yes,  Allen,"  said  the 
president  gravely.  Doubtless  the  presi- 
dent's words  would  be  in  the  morning 
papers;  he  selected  them  carefully.  "You 
robbed  my  ward.  That  means  you  robbed 
me,  the  man  who  has  kept  you  in  your  po- 
sition for  ten  years,  the  man  who  felt  to- 
ward you  as  a  father  might.  Yes,  if  only 
from  sentiment,  Allen,  sentiment  toward 
me,  you  might  have  spared  the  account  of 
poor  Bloomfield  Campbell." 

"Did  you  say  Bloomfield  Campbell?" 
She  wrung  her  hands  at  him  in  a  perfect 
torture  of  supplication.  "Oh,  Mr.  Bendis, 
please  say  you  said  Bloomfield  Campbell!" 

"Yes — I  said  that  name." 

"Then,"  the  old  war  trumpet  rang  in 
her  cry  as  she  turned  to  the  officer,  "put 
those  on  him.  He  is  wanted  for  extor- 
tion and  fraud.  That  is  Charker ! ' ' 

Aflame  with  triumph,  she  whirled  back 
on  the  president:  "Yes,  Charker!  You 
guardian  of  a  poor  lunatic!  Good  dodge, 
but  it  won't  work.  He  is  not  responsible 


THE  BAWLEROUT  203 

in  law.  You  are.  You  will  wear  the 
stripes  that  you  have  made  other  men  wear. 
Thank  God,  stripes  are  still  in  style  in  this 
state.  Mr.  Brice  wants  you  bad.  You 
know  it.  He's  got  the  money  to  get  you, 
too.  And  all  that  rotten  Charker  money 
won't  save  you,  the  rotten  Charker  money 
with  the  curse  of  the  poor  on  it.  All  those 
curses  of  the  poor  have  been  looking  for 
you,  year  after  year,  they  have  been  look- 
ing for  you.  Now  they  have  got  you. 
They  were  bound  to  get  you,  Charker. 
God  listens  to  the  curse  of  the  poor  as  He 
does  to  their  prayers,  and  He  don't  let 
them  come  home  to  roost,  either."  She 
was  frantic  with  rage  at  this  man  who  had 
led  the  feet  of  the  lad  she  loved  into  the 
pit,  and  her  voice  rang  and  rang  with  all 
her  hate.  Never  had  she  done  such  a  per- 
fect job  for  Charker  as  she  now  did  against 
him.  "Call  yourself  an  honest  man,  do 
you?  Well,  you  owe  one  honest  debt  and 
you  will  pay  it — in  jail!" 

"And  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world 
will  I  take  him  there."    And  Leary,  the 


204  THE  BAWLEROUT 

thick  man  who  had  talked  to  his  helmet 
long  ago  in  Charker's  office,  waved  the 
gleaming  handcuffs  and  strode  heavily  to- 
ward the  old  man  who,  shrunken  and  cow- 
ering, looked  more  than  ever  a  brother  to 
the  other  old  man  cowering  in  the  chair. 

"No — no!"  The  president's  scream 
was  hysterical.  He  pressed  his  body 
against  the  wall  and  hid  his  hands  behind 
him.  "  No ! "  The  lamplight  shone  on  his 
wet  face,  on  the  sudden  lines  of  terror  in  its 
quivering  gray  flesh. 

"Wait!"  She  put  her  hand  on  the  offi- 
cer's arm  and  held  him.  "Mr.  Bendis!" 
The  man  who  hid  his  hands  searched  her 
face  as  he  would  search  the  face  of  the 
judge  before  whom  he  would  stand  in  the 
shame  of  the  prisoner's  dock.  He  saw  the 
face  lose  its  hate  and  grow  in  humorous 
contempt  with  each  second  that  she 
watched  him.  * l  Mr.  Bendis,  I  have  done  a 
lot  of  business  for  you.  Now  I  am  think- 
ing of  doing  some  with  you."  He  made  a 
rattling  in  his  throat  which  might  have 
been  an  attempt  to  speak.  "You  see,"  she 


THE  BAWLEROUT  205 

leaned  comfortably  on  the  table  and  smiled 
at  him,  "I  rather  think  that  if  you  will 
shut  up  about  to-night,  pay  back  the 
money,  and  shut  up  Charker's,  I  will  shut 
up  about  you  and  not  go  down  to  the  bank 
to-morrow  and  make  the  reputation  of  my 
life  by  bawling  you  out."  He  gave  a 
shiver,  not  a  conservative  shiver,  either. 
''It  is  hard  on  me,  Mr.  Bendis,  because 
I  have  just  thought  of  a  lot  of  things  to 
yell  about.  You  don't  know  how  many 
things  have  occurred  to  me  in  the  last  five 
minutes  that  would  make  fine  yelling,  Mr. 
Bendis.  That  is  why  I  don't  want  you  ar- 
rested now,  because  I  want  it  done  in  the 
bank.  Mr.  Brice  will  get  the  warrant  to- 
night, and  then  I  will  come  down  and  do 
the  job  of  my  life  when  it  is  served,  right 
there  in  the  bank  where  there  is  a  good 
audience.  I  can't  do  justice  to  myself 
without  an  audience." 

"For  God's  sake — don't!  I  will  pay 
back  the  money.  I  will  do  anything. ' '  He 
had  not  got  back  much  of  his  voice,  but 
what  he  had  recovered  was  very  earnest. 


206  THE  BAWLEKOUT 

"Very  good."  She  smiled  dazzlingly. 
"And  you  will  shut  up  Charker's?" 

"Yes,  anything." 

"That's  good.  You  will  find  out  that  it 
is  awfully  nice  to  be  honest,  Mr.  Bendis." 

"I  am  an  officer  of  the  law,"  said  Leary 
suddenly. 

"Sure,"  her  smile  wrapped  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  law  in  folds  of  brightness, 
"and  there  is  nobody  I  know  of  who  can 
talk  to  an  officer  of  the  law  like  a  bank 
president. ' ' 

"I  will  see  you  outside,  Leary,"  said  the 
president  quickly. 

"All  right,"  said  Leary,  putting  away 
the  handcuffs.  "I  am  glad  that  it  has  all 
ended  so  pleasant.  Yuh,"  to  Allen,  "let 
this  be  a  warning  to  yuh  to  lead  an  hon- 
est life." 

At  these  words  the  girl's  smile  went. 
Her  firm  lips  set. 

"Wait!  Don't  go  yet.  You  sha'n't  go 
thinking  him  a  thief.  Not  one  of  you  shall 
go  thinking  him  a  thief."  She  fronted  the 
old  cashier,  pitiless,  inexorable,  as  a 


THE  BAWLEEOUT  207 

woman  fights  for  the  man  she  loves,  and, 
forgetting  all  others,  fights  only  for  him. 
''You  let  him  take  the  shame  when  you 
were  in  danger.  Now  you  are  safe,  you 
sha'n't  leave  him  the  shame.  You  did  it." 

* '  Don 't  answer  her,  father ! ' ' 

"I  did  it,"  said  the  old  man. 

The  president  looked  at  him  with;  venom, 
which  seemed  to  restore  the  president's 
old  self. 

"Nothing  shall  be  said  of  this,"  he  was 
icily  conservative  now  that  the  world  was 
once  more  firm  under  his  feet,  "but  we 
cannot  have  you  in  the  bank.  Allen,  I  con- 
gratulate you.  I  was  always  fond  of  you. 
In  justice  to  myself,  let  me  say  that  Chark- 
er's  was  started  as  a  charity.  I  regret  to 
find  that  Sleen  has  abused  my  confidence. 
Charker's  shall  close.  Good-night.  Offi- 
cer, a  word  with  you. ' ' 

He  departed,  Leary  in  respectful  attend- 
ance. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  your  old  bank, 
father."  Edith  Downs  put  a  loving  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  sent  forty  feminine-. 


208  THE  BAWLEROUT 

power  hate  hurtling  at  Miss  Sullivan. 
"Roy  has  promised  me  that  he  will  give 
you  a  nice  position  in  his  company. ' '  She 
swept  forward  to  where  Allen  was  stand- 
ing. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Allen." 

"Edith!"  his  eyes  opened  in  surprise  at 
her  sudden  dignity. 

"Please  don't  call  me  by  my  first  name. 
I  am  sure  that  under  the  circumstances 
Roy  wouldn't  approve." 

"Roy?"    Now  his  jaw  dropped. 

1  i  I  am  engaged  to  him. ' '  She  smiled  at 
him  prettily.  "He  has  been  asking  me  to 
marry  him  for  the  last  week.  To-night, 
after  I  saw  what  I  saw  here,  I  called  him 
up  and  accepted  him.  Miss  Sullivan,"  she 
smiled  at  her,  "I  like  you  so  much.  I 
would  send  you  an  invitation  to  my  wed- 
ding, but  I  am  afraid  that  we  will  not  go 
beyond  the  assembly  list,  and  you  would 
not  feel  comfortable.  It  is  to  be  a  very 
fashionable  wedding." 

She  swept  her  father  under  her  arm  and 
departed,  smiling  a  forgiving  farewell. 


THE  BAWLEROUT  209 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  in  the 
placid  lamplight. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  said. 

' '  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you ! ' '  she  cried. 

He  laughed  boyishly  and  drew  near  to 
her,  bending  to  look  into  her  suddenly 
lowered  eyes.  "I  can't  tell  you  what  I 
feel — about  to-night —  But  I  feel  so 
happy  I  have  got  to  tell  you  something." 

''You  have  no  right  to  feel  happy,"  she 
cried  angrily,  her  eyes  growing  wet.  The 
relief,  the  reaction  from  her  terror,  a  wild 
jumble  of  feeling  of  all  'descriptions  was 
rolling  over  her. 

' '  Haven 't  1 1  You  are  the  only  one  who 
can  prevent  it. ' ' 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  begin- 
ning to  cry ;  *  *  I  did  it  for  your  mother. ' ' 

' l  Then  do  something  for  me. ' ' 

"I  won't.    What  is  it?" 

"I'm  a  fool.  A  man  can  love  and  not 
know  it.  Marry  me. ' ' 

"What!"  she  cried,  darting  back. 
1 1  How —  You  make  me  sick !  I  want  you 
to  know  that  it — "  She  choked  and  then 


210  THE  BAWLEROUT 

blazed  again.  In  her  excitement  and  con- 
fusion old  habits  returned  strong.  Fight- 
ing with  her  tears  and  bawling  him  out, 
she  continued:  "How  dare  you  make 
me  out  what  that  girl  thinks  I  am?  How 
dare  you  think  I  think  about  you  ?  Do  you 
suppose  that  if  I  thought  a  thing  about 
you  I  would  have  got  Mr.  Brice  to  promise 
to  give  you  a  good  position  so  that  your 
mother  could  be  comfortable,  and  not  de- 
pendent on  your  little  salary?  Do  you 
think  I  did  that  for  you?  Yes,  that  is  the 
secret  she  and  I  have.  But  you  needn't 
think  I  did  it  for  you.  I  have  no  use  for 
men — I—  The  sobs  choked  her.  She 
hid  her  face  on  his  breast,  still  murmuring 
that  she  had  no  use  for  men,  and  without 
the  faintest  idea  of  what  she  was  saying 
or  any  idea  of  anything  but  that  she  was 
being  drawn  into  the  arms  of  the  man  of 
whose  coming  she  had  dreamed. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered,  "are  you  sure 
that  you  hate  men?"  His  face  was  as  of 
seven  boyhoods. 

Slowly  she  raised  her  head  and  gave  him 


THE  BAWLEKOUT  211 

the  lips  that  she  had  so  valiantly  kept  pure 
for  his  coming. 

' '  Oh,  me ! ' '  exclaimed  the  little  old  lady, 
opening  the  door.  "Oh,  me,  oh,  my!" 

They  did  not  hear  her. 

"Land  of  love!"  She  fluttered  a  step 
or  two  toward  them,  a  most  distracted, 
twittering  little  mother  bird. 

They  did  not  hear  her. 

The  little  mother  bird  turned  and  flut- 
tered out.  Softly  the  door  closed. 

"Darling,  tell  me  something." 

"Yes,  Dick?" 

"What  is  your  first  name?" 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  shabby  coat. 

* '  Sweet,  if  we  are  to  be  married  I  must 
know  your  first  name." 

No  answer. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"Peace,"  whispered  the  bawlerout. 


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